The green room smells like hairspray and something colder - ambition, maybe, or regret. Tadashi slides a garment bag across the vanity without looking at you. His smile is already in place, the one he uses when there is nothing left to negotiate. Through the thin wall, you can hear the quiet of someone waiting. You recognize the name he drops. You have seen that face on every billboard from Shibuya to Shinjuku. The contract clause surfaces in your memory, word for word. You learned it the hard way. The bag is in your hands now. The client is right outside. And Tadashi is already checking his phone - because for him, this moment ended before it began.