Reborn in Tokyo: From Heiress to Global Tycoon

Chapter 329 The Other Side of the Glass

The recording studio was very quiet.

Sachiko Kamachi sat at the piano, her left hand resting on the edge of the piano lid, and her right hand holding a very short pencil.

She wrote a note on the staff paper, paused for two seconds, and then erased it with an eraser.

It is 3:17 PM now.

The vocal recording for today is all done—three songs, two takes each, and the second take was perfect on the first try. When the recording engineer said "thank you for your hard work" over the intercom, there was even a hint of boredom in his tone, after all, it was just a routine task for him.

She looked up and glanced at the control room across the glass window. The recording engineer had already left. The faders on the mixing console were neatly back in place, and the VU meter's needle hung at the bottom.

She was probably the only one left in the entire building.

She likes times like this.

The company's recording studio was available for her use until 5 p.m.—Itakura specifically added this clause when confirming the contract with her. "You can treat it like your own room," Itakura said at the time, "anyway, no one else is queuing before 5 p.m."

Three years.

Sachiko's fingers landed lightly on the piano keys, pressing a C major chord. The sound dissipated quickly between the sound-absorbing walls of the recording studio, like a pebble thrown into deep water.

Three years.

She counted. From the day she signed the contract until today, she has recorded a total of 427 vocal tracks.

It covers pop, rock, enka, and R&B. A total of 427 different melodies, lyrics, emotions, and breaths.

She wasn't the one who sang each song—her voice was merely a mold, cast into a shape, and then sent to 13,000 karaoke machines across the country, waiting for a stranger in a karaoke room to pick up the microphone and sing along with her voice.

Nobody knew it was her.

Her name won't appear on any album cover, nor in the credits at the bottom of television screens. In the industry's food chain, the "vocalist" sits somewhere between the "instrument" and the "person."

But she sang very earnestly. Every single one.

Her fingers loosened from the chords, and she played a melody. It was something she wrote herself—not within her job scope, purely because she wanted to. The chorus had already been revised three times, each version falling short. She couldn't quite put her finger on what was wrong, only knowing that when she played that part, the feeling in her chest wasn't fully released.

She stopped and looked down at the musical staff. The pencil marks, some deep and some shallow, overlapped together, and in some places, the paper was fuzzy from being erased.

Since signing the contract in that small bar three years ago, she has never stood on any stage again.

She was placed in this recording studio, and her daily work consisted of singing. Itakura regularly delivered the tracklist and the lead vocal tapes. After recording, she would hand in the tapes and return to her apartment. Occasionally, she would exchange a few words with the recording engineer about technical details, but most of the time she was alone.

The first six months were the most difficult.

When she first walked into the recording studio, she knew nothing. She didn't even know how to wear the monitoring headphones correctly—she wore them too tightly, and after thirty minutes her ears started to turn red and hurt.

The sound engineer made a gesture through the glass window, which she didn't understand. Later, the sound engineer came in and loosened the headband of her headphones by two notches, folding the side foam padding to the outside of her ears instead of pressing it on.

"Just be gentle," the sound engineer said.

She recorded all afternoon that day, eight songs. Each song was recorded four or five times. After returning to her apartment, she played her cassette tapes and paused them on the first listen.

Too tight.

The throat is straining, the breath is being held up, and the high notes are like trying to reach the top of a shelf with your fingers—you manage to reach it, but the posture is awkward.

She arrived at the studio at six o'clock the next day, three hours earlier than the start time. She put on the monitoring headphones and practiced alone into the microphone.

Then it took one year, two years, and two and a half years.

The changes became apparent starting in the autumn of the following year.

One day she was recording a mid-tempo love song, and the highest note in the chorus was a flat A5. Previously, when she encountered this note, she needed to adjust her breathing, tighten her abdomen, and "push" the sound forward a measure in advance. That day, she did her usual preparatory movements—and then found that the note came out on its own.

Gently and steadily, like a leaf floating on the water.

The sound engineer paused for two seconds on the intercom, then said, "Yeah, that's the feeling."

Looking back now, was that what they call "enlightenment"?

After that, the sound engineer gave her less and less technical advice.

By the third year, it had almost completely disappeared.

Every song was passed on the first try.

Another thing happened in the creative process.

In his eighth month at the company, Itakura came to the studio to deliver a new batch of vocal track tapes. While waiting for the tapes to be delivered, he heard a melody drifting from the piano room and asked her what song it was.

"I wrote it myself," she said.

Itakura paused for a moment, then laughed.

"Ms. Sachiko, you can create music?"

She nodded. She writes lyrics and composes music; she's been doing it since high school. She just's never shown it to anyone.

Itakura asked her to play a piece. After listening to it, his expression changed.

"This... the melody of the chorus is quite unusual."

After that, Itakura would set aside half a day each month to listen to her new demos. He offered some creative advice—mostly market-related, such as "if the first note of the chorus melody enters an octave lower, karaoke customers will find it easier to sing along." She listened selectively, adopting some of it while retaining her own judgment on the rest.

There's one more thing. The sound engineer mentioned it.

One time after a recording session, the sound engineer was packing up the equipment when he casually remarked, "Oh, by the way, last weekend I went to karaoke, and there was a girl in the next booth singing the song you recorded, 'The Track of the Wind.'"

Sachiko paused at her lips, holding the teacup.

"She sang pretty well," the recording engineer said, putting away the cables. "It's just that transition in the chorus—you used a little bit of breathiness when you recorded it, right? She didn't quite get that part right, but she kept trying. I heard her sing it four times."

That night, Sachiko lay on her bed in the apartment, staring at the ceiling for a long time.

The girl was repeatedly practicing the breathy transition she was singing.

She didn't know Sachiko's name, nor did she know what she looked like. But she was imitating her, learning from her.

"I wish she knew it was me singing."

When this thought came to mind, Sachiko was startled.

When she first entered the industry, she wondered if she would be immediately packaged in a glamorous way and put on stage.

But Ms. Saionji's reply was, "The time is not right."

Sachiko wasn't sure of the timing, but she was certain that Ms. Saionji had her reasons for saying that. All she needed to do was cooperate with the company's strategy; she quite liked this behind-the-scenes work style anyway.

She knew she had a natural fear of the camera. Even if she were to go on stage herself, she wasn't sure she would perform well.

However, once that idea was brought back to mind, it never disappeared.

The fingers landed back on the piano keys.

In recent months, some subtle changes have disrupted her long-established rhythm.

The number of lyrical ballads on the tapes sent by Itakura has increased significantly.

Previously, upbeat songs were the most popular, high-energy tracks suitable for karaoke. In the last three months, almost half of them have been pure love songs with piano accompaniment—the kind of songs that need to unfold in a quiet setting and test the singer's emotional control.

She didn't find it difficult while recording; on the contrary, she felt comfortable. But she vaguely realized that the recording style of these songs was closer to an "album" than a "director's song".

And then there was that photo shoot. Last month, Itakura brought a photographer to the studio, saying it was to "keep some photos for internal company archives."

But the photographer's lighting methods—using reflectors, adjusting the color temperature, and even having her slightly tilt her head to adjust the angle—clearly exceeded the standards for "archiving" the shot. After the shoot, when the photographer was packing up his equipment, he told his assistant, "This one is usable." She heard him but didn't ask any further questions.

What bothered her most was a question Itakura had asked her two weeks ago.

After recording the last song of the day, Itakura didn't say "thank you for your hard work" and leave as usual. He sat down, chatted for a few minutes, and then said in an unusually relaxed tone:

"Ms. Sachiko, when do you think you can debut?"

She remembered her reaction—her fingers lifted from the mixing console, hovering in mid-air for about a second. Then she smiled and asked, "What does Mr. Itakura think?"

Itakura looked at her, seemingly waiting for a different answer. But she didn't have a better one for him. He eventually smiled, patted his knee, said "No rush, no rush," and left.

That night she thought about the question again.

When do you think you can debut?

She found herself unable to give a definite answer.

Technically, she knew she was already well-prepared. She believed she had done a good job of the polishing Ms. Saionji had mentioned.

Her pitch is much more stable than it was three years ago, her breath control is more refined, and the quality of her high notes has changed from "struggling to reach" to "effortlessly landing on them." The recording engineer stopped giving her advice six months ago—because there was nothing left to say.

There's something else I can't say.

She didn't know why she wanted to debut.

The fingers slowly plucked the keys, the melody breaking into fragments.

Does she love music?

of course.

For the past three years, she has been singing and writing every day without ever getting tired of it. This job has given her a stable income, plenty of time to herself, and a recording studio that she can use at her own discretion.

She also wanted to be heard. She still remembers the story the recording engineer told her about the karaoke girl. "If only she knew it was me singing"—this thought has recurred over the past three years, with increasing frequency.

But between "wanting to be heard" and "standing on stage," there is a chasm that she hasn't figured out yet.

She had completely mastered the rules of the recording studio. Here, she only needed to face the microphone. The microphone wouldn't judge her. If she made a mistake, she could start over.

There are countless layers of media between her and her audience—microphones, tapes, the speakers of karaoke machines—that "glass wall" makes her feel safe, free, and allows her to focus all her attention on the sound itself.

Debuting means that the glass has been shattered.

She needed to stand under the lights, face the camera, be interviewed, and be asked questions about her "creative inspiration" and "personal life."

Someone needs to know her name and recognize her face. She needs to sing the first note in front of hundreds or thousands of people—and once that note is sung, there is no "do it again."

Can she sing well? Technically, probably.

But the issue here isn't "whether it's possible" or "whether it's not possible".

Itakura asked, "When can you debut?" The company replied, "We're waiting for the right time." Hidden within these words was a premise—debuting was the obvious next step. Three years of training and accumulation were all for the ultimate moment of stepping into the spotlight.

But Sachiko searched her mind and couldn't find the reason that drove her to stand up there.

She loves music—but she could love it quietly in this recording studio for the rest of her life. She wants to be heard—but the tapes have already reached every household.

Although no one knows it was her singing, the voice definitely exists.

"Isn't that enough?" she asked herself.

Silent for a long time.

The answer should be "not enough," she knew.

Because if it's "enough," the thought "If only she knew it was me singing" won't keep popping up.

But she also couldn't confidently say "it's not enough." Because behind that "not enough" lay an even more pressing issue that she dared not touch—

"Who exactly is the 'me' I want to be seen?"

Sachiko Kamachi in the recording studio is a version of herself she knows. Quiet, focused, and self-consistent and whole when she's with the music.

What would Sachiko Kamachi become when she stood on the stage? She didn't know. She couldn't even imagine it concretely.

The outline was blurry and blank—like a negative that hadn't been developed yet.

She is not afraid of going astray, nor is she afraid of failing.

She was afraid—that once she stood on it, she would find herself empty under the light.

The melody stopped on the piano.

Her fingers rested on the piano keys, but she didn't press them. The recording studio was quiet, with only the faint sound of airflow from the air conditioning vents.

She looked down at the sheet music. The pencil marks, some deep, some shallow, overlapped together. This song had been revised three times, but the chorus still didn't go in the right direction.

She had a vague feeling that the reason she couldn't finish writing this song and the reason she couldn't answer Itakura's question might be the same.

What's missing?

A fulcrum, a sentence, a picture.

A certain power that allowed her to push the warm, quiet, and restrained feeling of "like" in her chest out of her throat, onto her lips, and project it into the distance.

She hasn't found it yet.

Sachiko took a deep breath.

She placed her fingers back on the keys, ready to try the chorus again. Her left hand pressed down an Am chord, and her right hand had just played two notes—

The door to the recording studio rang.

She lifted her fingers off the keys and turned her head.

There was a person standing at the door.

He wasn't very tall. He wore a light blue wool sweater, and his hair was neatly combed. He had an indescribable expression on his face—it looked like he was smiling, but also like he was scrutinizing something.

Sachiko paused for about a second.

Then she recognized the person who came.

Within SA Entertainment, everyone knows this name, but almost no one has ever seen her in person. Rumors say she's either a ruthless heiress or someone even Itakura wouldn't dare look her in the eye.

But Sachiko had seen it.

She was personally recruited by this young lady.

Although Sachiko herself didn't know what was so special about her that warranted the personal intervention of the Saionji family's eldest daughter, there were many people more talented than her, and she wouldn't dare claim to be number one in terms of effort.

But this young lady gave herself a respectable job and a generous salary, and even allowed herself to pursue her dreams and do what she loved as she pleased.

Therefore, in Sachiko's heart, she has always been number one.

Three years have passed.

The girl had grown taller, and her features were more defined. But something about her hadn't changed—that quiet weight that made people instinctively hold their breath.

Sachiko stood up from the piano bench, nearly dropping the pencil in her hand.

She glanced instinctively at the sheet music scattered on the mixing console and her half-finished can of coffee. The recording studio was a bit messy; she hadn't expected anyone to suddenly walk in.

"Miss Saionji—what brings you here?"

Her voice was more steady than she had expected. It carried genuine surprise and a hint of embarrassment.

Satsuki stood at the door, her gaze shifting from Sachiko's face to slowly sweeping across the entire recording studio.

Musical staff paper, album pages on the wall, English books with translation notes tucked into a small bookshelf, and a file box with seventy-three cassette tapes stacked in the corner.

She looked at it for a few seconds.

Then, the gaze returned to Sachiko.

"It's been a long time, Ms. Sachiko."