Chapter 88: Neon Fever! Mrs. Hashishita’s Dogezza!
Hiroshi Nohara’s apartment was warm and tranquil.
Soft lighting rendered this small apartment like a cozy haven isolated from the world.
On the dining table, a delicate bone china plate held freshly pan-fried flounder emitting a rich butter aroma, the fish meat dotted with a few bright red peppercorns, accompanied by a small portion of sesame leaf salad lightly dressed with olive oil and sea salt, crisp and tender as if dripping with water.
“Mmm! So delicious!” Misae was taking small bites with a silver fork, sending fish meat into her mouth; her pretty face, always carrying a touch of naivety, brimmed with happiness enveloped by gourmet food and love.
“Mm, the fish meat is very tender.” Hiroshi Nohara nodded with a light chuckle.
“Mm… Hiroshi-kun, the lemon butter sauce you made tastes absolutely divine!”
Misae took another big bite of fish meat, squinting in satisfaction like a cat that had stolen the world’s tastiest dried small fish: “Even better than what we had at that high-end French restaurant in Ginza last time!”
“Eat more if you like it.” Hiroshi Nohara smiled and refilled her glass with white wine; the crisp liquid refracted dazzling, enchanting light in the crystal glass.
He was in a great mood.
Not just because of the ratings report that had skyrocketed like a rocket, but more because of this tangible tranquility and daily life that belonged to him.
This was the meaning of his efforts.
‘Ding-a-ling—’
At that moment, an urgent telephone bell rang from the corner, shattering this warm tranquility.
Misae set down her knife and fork, about to stand to answer it, but Hiroshi Nohara had already risen first, gesturing for her to “keep eating peacefully,” and walked unhurriedly to the living room.
“Hello, this is the Nohara family home.” He picked up the receiver.
“Nohara-kun? It’s me, Kiyoto Suzuki.”
From the other end came a familiar voice, mild yet tinged with fatigue.
Hiroshi Nohara was very familiar with this voice.
A smile appeared on his face: “Suzuki-senpai! I didn’t expect to get your call so late. Haven’t you rested yet?”
He had always respected Kiyoto Suzuki greatly.
“Haha, can’t sleep, can’t sleep.”
Kiyoto Suzuki on the other end let out a dry laugh, laced with irrepressible excitement and pride: “I just saw the ratings report sent from Tokyo headquarters at Kanto Stage. Nohara-kun, you… you’re really… I was right about you from the start! 《World of the Strange》 ratings 21.95%! You’ve created a miracle, kid!”
His praise was filled with heartfelt admiration.
“You’re too kind, senpai.” Hiroshi Nohara just smiled calmly. “This is the result of everyone’s joint efforts.”
“No, this is different.” Kiyoto Suzuki’s tone grew serious: “I know full well that 99% of this achievement is your doing, just like 《An Shizhi》! You’ve grown to a height where even this old guy has to look up to you.”
His words were sincere; Hiroshi Nohara could even hear, through the phone, his pride and gratification as a half-mentor.
The two chatted happily.
Without any barrier.
But after the pleasantries, the other end fell into a long silence, carrying hesitation as if wanting to speak but stopping, and an awkwardness hard to voice.
Hiroshi Nohara didn’t press; he just waited quietly, a flicker of guesswork already in his clear eyes.
“Senpai.” In the end, Hiroshi Nohara spoke first, his voice gentle with a stabilizing power: “Is there… something you want to tell me?”
“…Sigh.” From the other end came Kiyoto Suzuki’s helpless sigh.
“Nohara-kun, this old guy calling you today is to… to shamelessly ask you a favor for an unworthy fellow.” Kiyoto Suzuki began.
“It’s about Hashishita-senpai, right.” Hiroshi Nohara’s tone was calm as he voiced his guess first, sparing Kiyoto Suzuki embarrassment.
“Yeah.”
Surprise tinged Kiyoto Suzuki’s voice, soon turning to deeper bitterness: “That damn fool.”
“I… I just found out. His wife called me crying just now. Said… said that guy came home today like a madman, locked himself in the room, crying and shouting, smashing things, getting dead drunk. She’s never seen him like that; the kids at home were so scared they were sent to his grandparents’.”
Pain like hating iron for not becoming steel filled Kiyoto Suzuki’s voice: “After asking forever, I learned he… he’s been disciplined by the television station. Transferred back to Kanto Stage, to logistics as a… data organizer.”
“This… this is no different from firing him! It’s clearly social death for him!”
Hiroshi Nohara said nothing.
He knew full well that in this hierarchical, face-obsessed country, this punishment was more humiliating than outright dismissal.
Many Japanese people faced similar plights, some even hanging themselves from the humiliation.
After all, for Japanese people, face and dignity…
Sometimes valued more strangely than anyone in the world, yet treating life with extreme disregard—wanting to go, they just go.
“Nohara-kun, I know that damn fool betrayed you, betrayed our entire Kanto Faction; he deserves it.”
Hoarseness near pleading entered Kiyoto Suzuki’s voice: “But… he’s the first disciple I brought up. He has talent; he was just… blinded by jealousy and ambition for a moment. I… I really can’t bear to see him ruined like this.”
“So, Nohara-kun, could I… ask you one thing?”
Kiyoto Suzuki pleaded: “I know this request is excessive. But… could you… go see him at his place? It’s not far from you, in Koto Ward. You… go talk to him, even just yell at him to snap him out of it. Don’t let him… really take it too hard and go down a dead end.”
“I understand.”
Amid Kiyoto Suzuki’s anxious wait, Hiroshi Nohara responded immediately: “Senpai, don’t worry. I’ll head over now. Ichiro Hashishita was once a comrade-in-arms; I can’t just let something happen to him.”
“Then… thank you so much! Hiroshi-kun!” Kiyoto Suzuki was so moved he used honorifics.
Hanging up, Hiroshi Nohara returned to the dining room.
Misae looked at him with eyes tinged with worry. “Work-related?” she asked softly.
“Mm, a former colleague in some trouble.” Hiroshi Nohara went behind her, leaned down, and gently kissed her cheek, his voice tender: “I’ll step out for a bit, be right back. Eat first; don’t wait for me.”
“Mm, be safe.” Misae was as obedient as a cute calico kitten.
……
The black Toyota Crown Majesta glided silently through the night, city lights eternally brilliant outside the window.
Following Kiyoto Suzuki’s address, Hiroshi Nohara soon found the somewhat dated apartment building in Koto Ward.
The stairwell was dimly lit, the air thick with the damp scent unique to old buildings.
He stood before the slightly rusty iron door and rang the bell.
‘Ding-dong!’
After a while, the door opened from inside.
The one who opened it was a woman in her early thirties, in plain loungewear, hair disheveled; her face, which could be considered quite attractive, was now etched with exhaustion and unease, her swollen, tear-reddened eyes like two ripe cherries.
“Excuse me… who are you looking for?” Her voice was hoarse, tinged with wariness.
“Hello, I’m Hiroshi Nohara.” He introduced himself: “Ichiro Hashishita’s colleague.”
At the name from his mouth, her body trembled sharply; her swollen eyes instantly burst with complex light mixing hope and shame.
“You… you’re Teacher Nohara!”
She instinctively bowed, her voice cracking: “I’m so sorry you have to see our home like this…”
She stepped aside, fully opening the door to let him in.
A pungent alcoholic stench assaulted him, mixed with the nauseating sour rot of vomit.
The living room was a mess: shattered wine bottles, scattered cushions, furniture toppled askew, like after a mini typhoon.
From the bedroom inside came deafening snores like thunder.
“He’s… been like this since he got back.”
Hashishita’s wife, Minami Hashishita, ushered Hiroshi Nohara inside.
Wiping endless tears with her hand, her voice filled with helplessness and despair: “I asked what happened, but he wouldn’t say—just kept drinking, smashing things, muttering ‘why’ and ‘what right’ nonstop… I’m… so scared; I’ve never seen him like this.”
She looked at Hiroshi Nohara, her eyes like a drowning person’s grasp on the last rice straw:
“Teacher Nohara, Teacher Suzuki told me—my worthless husband… is he… getting fired from the television station? Are we… losing this decent job?”
Hiroshi Nohara looked at her fear-filled face, silent for a moment, then nodded gently out of pity.
Though reassignment to Kanto Stage wasn’t dismissal.
It was close enough.
How could a data organizer compare to a fourth-class director at Tokyo TV, or deputy section chief perks?
This action, like the final rice straw, crushed Minami Hashishita’s already taut nerves.
Her body went limp, collapsing to the floor.
Face full of despair.
Tears welled in her eyes.
“Mrs. Hashishita.” Hiroshi Nohara instinctively reached to help the still-attractive mature woman in her thirties, but mindful of propriety, his hands stiffened slightly.
At this moment, the collapsed Minami Hashishita ignored all and knelt before Hiroshi Nohara with a thud!
A standard dogeza, forehead pressed to the icy cold floor!
Fully displaying her mature woman’s voluptuous figure.
“Teacher Nohara!”
Her voice came from beneath her lowered head, filled with humble, desperate plea: “I beg you! Give him one more chance! I know he did wrong, betrayed you, deserves death! But… he was just confused for a moment!”
“We have a child, a mortgage—if… if he loses this job, our family… is truly done!”
She raised her head, her tear-streaked face set with do-or-die resolve.
“Teacher Nohara, as long as… as long as you show mercy and save his job. I… I’ll do anything for you! Anything!”
“…” Hiroshi Nohara was stunned.
This scene felt so familiar.
His eye twitched; he clearly remembered transmigrating into Crayon Shin-chan’s world, not some weird Japanese NTR world.
Hiroshi Nohara had strong self-morals from his previous life.
So he directly pulled a business card from his pocket.
Placed it on the nearby table.
“Here’s my business card. Have Ichiro Hashishita call me tomorrow.” Hiroshi Nohara left the room immediately, slamming the door shut.
He hurried downstairs.
Got back in his Toyota Crown, utterly speechless.
As he drove away from the apartment building, looking at this old but prime Tokyo Metropolitan Area residential area, he understood why she was so humble.
Mortgage and decent living.
Working at Tokyo Television Station meant benefits, treatment, and salary 30%+ higher than Kanto Television Station.
And Kanto Television Station pay was already decent.
But that didn’t mean data organizer was.
Probably becoming a data organizer.
Would mean only the most basic salary.
Benefits slashed too.
Plus the drop in social status and regard from relatives and friends—like falling off a cliff.
Anyone would crack.
Especially in face-obsessed Japan.
And with data organizer pay cut, this rundown old apartment probably couldn’t be kept.
This was a core Tokyo Metropolis apartment before the economic bubble burst.
Living here equaled status.
Unable to pay mortgage and leaving meant slinking away from Tokyo in shame before friends and family, becoming a loser.
An even greater loss of face.
In ancient times, probably seppuku…
“But if Ichiro Hashishita can be of use to me, helping out isn’t a big deal. Plus, Kiyoto Suzuki-senpai would owe me one.” Hiroshi Nohara rubbed his chin.
He chuckled wryly at tonight’s events.
Indeed very Japanese style.
