Chapter Fifteen: The Imprisoned Man

At night, Shinjuku is both paradise and hell.

It is called paradise because the vibrant nightlife here is endlessly alluring; it is called hell because filth festers in unseen corners, and violence and vice are everywhere. In Shinjuku, countless adult talent scouts prowl the streets. No one knows how many naive young girls have fallen into their traps, only to be drawn into the shadows of the underworld.

The most famous district of Shinjuku is undoubtedly Ni-chome. Its fame comes from the concentration of gay bars—some two to three hundred establishments—making it one of the world’s most renowned havens for the LGBTQ community. Even so, with so many bars, there are still plenty that cater to a general crowd.

Walking alone through Ni-chome at night, Ye Zhao felt his nerves tingling, half-expecting a burly man to leap out from a dark alley and knock him out, leaving him to wake up the next day with an unspeakable ache somewhere on his body.

He drew a deep breath, ready to reassure himself that he was being paranoid, when suddenly, a “girl” burst out from an alley—dressed in a red dress, long black hair parted in the middle, delicate features. The "girl" threw Ye Zhao a flirtatious glance and purred, “Hey handsome, want to grab a drink?” Though the voice was deliberately pinched and the mannerisms feminine, it was clear as day…

Ye Zhao shuddered and took off running.

Breathless, he pushed open the door to the bar. Sitting at the counter, Riku Watanabe watched Ye Zhao’s disheveled entrance with obvious glee. “Got hit on, did you?”

Ye Zhao rolled his eyes. “If I didn’t know you’ve been in a loving relationship for years, I’d have to question your motives for arranging a late-night meeting in Ni-chome.”

“Get out of here!” Watanabe laughed, swearing under his breath.

This small bar, called Chaska, had only a narrow storefront, a short bar counter, and two little tables—enough to seat perhaps ten people. In this district, no one cared if your face looked a little too young; you could still sip a drink in peace.

Ye Zhao ordered a Gin Fizz. While waiting for his drink, he asked, “What are you up to lately, Watanabe?”

“There’s a club over in Roppongi—I’m playing bass there now. I thought about starting a new band, but after auditioning a few youngsters, none of them seemed promising. There are more bands around these days, but the quality of the musicians is all over the place,” Watanabe said, then shot the question back. “And you?”

“I started out busking in Shibuya’s shopping streets. Now I’m thinking of self-producing an indie single.”

“Self-producing an indie single? Look at you—did you win the lottery?” Watanabe teased.

“Something like that.” Ye Zhao smiled, then grew serious. “Because my budget’s tight, I had to turn down the record company’s offer for arrangement and accompaniment. So I was hoping you could help me find some affordable session musicians.”

Watanabe didn’t agree right away. Instead, he asked, “What kind of single are you making? A cover, or did you buy a song?”

Ye Zhao hesitated, then decided to tell the truth. “It’s my own original.”

Hearing this, Watanabe frowned, speaking with gentle caution. “Self-producing a single isn’t cheap. Are you sure you don’t want to reconsider?”

A little thought made Ye Zhao understand his reaction. His predecessor had solid guitar skills but had never written anything noteworthy. To spend over a million yen on a song fit only for private amusement would be a disaster. That Watanabe was willing to offer gentle advice rather than blunt dismissal was already a credit to their friendship.

Mere words would not convince him—Ye Zhao knew he would have to demonstrate his ability. “How about this, Watanabe? Let me play you my song. After you hear it, you can decide whether you want to help or not.”

“All right,” Watanabe nodded.

They left the bar and climbed into Watanabe’s silver, secondhand Toyota Camry. About ten minutes later, they arrived at the Giraffe Club, where they had once performed as resident musicians. They didn’t go back to Ye Zhao’s apartment because it was already past ten-thirty; playing guitar and singing at that hour would have been a sure way to disturb the neighbors.

Watanabe had been knocking around Tokyo’s underground music scene for four or five years. Though his career hadn’t taken off, he was well-known enough that even after leaving the club, the owner didn’t hesitate to let them use the backstage lounge.

“Lounge” was a generous term—it was really a narrow, seven or eight square meter storeroom. Guitars hung on the walls, spares for the club’s use. Ye Zhao took down a natural wood Epiphone electro-acoustic, tuned it, and said, “All right, I’ll start.”

The charm of “Summer Color” was beyond question. As Ye Zhao began to sing, Watanabe, who had been a touch indifferent, grew steadily more serious, finally showing outright astonishment.

When the last note faded, Watanabe lifted his hands to applaud, but Ye Zhao’s right hand struck the strings again, and another melody filled the little room.

In Japan, a single typically includes not only the lead track but also one or two additional songs, known as C/W (Couple With) tracks. Not every single has them, but for 1,000 yen, listeners get more value with two songs than one, which helps boost sales.

For the C/W track, Ye Zhao chose “Secret Base,” the song he’d sung at the audition. There was no special reason for this choice—since he intended his single to be a hit, it made sense to include a proven, catchy song that fit the single’s theme.

Both “Summer Color” and “Secret Base” were renowned hits. To present two such outstanding songs at once was a shock to Watanabe.

After Ye Zhao finished, Watanabe hesitated, then asked, “These two songs…you wrote them both?”

Instead of answering, Ye Zhao countered, “With songs of this quality, is there any problem with me releasing an indie single?”

“Problem? Either one of these could be a lead single for a top artist. Ye Zhao, I never knew you had this kind of talent.”

Seeing Watanabe’s wry smile, Ye Zhao said, “Actually, on the day the band broke up, I’d planned to show everyone my original work.” Although the breakup had nothing to do with Ye Zhao, he didn’t want Watanabe to think he was a selfish opportunist. His original intention had, after all, been to strive together with the band.

“You don’t need to explain. I believe you,” Watanabe sighed. “Maybe the band was just never meant to be. I’ll help you find musicians. But producing an indie single is expensive—are you set for living expenses? If not, you can always come to me.”

“That won’t be necessary. To be honest, I recently won the NTT DOCOMO audition and used the million-yen prize to cover production costs. Living expenses aren’t an issue.”

Looking at Ye Zhao’s calm, composed expression, Watanabe seemed to see him in a new light. He murmured, “Yuta thought being in the band was holding him back, which is why he insisted on leaving. But now it seems the one who was truly held back…was you.”