Chapter 54: Ichiro Hashishita’s Decision
The feast had dispersed, and it was already late at night.
The slightly cool night breeze blew on his face, carrying a bit of the intoxication from the alcohol.
Kiyoto Suzuki and Ichiro Hashishita walked side by side, the dim yellow streetlights stretching their shadows thin and long.
“Hashishita, let’s rest for a bit.”
Kiyoto Suzuki stopped, sat down on a bench by the roadside, took out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, handed one to Ichiro Hashishita, lit one for himself, took a deep drag, and in the swirling smoke, his voice sounded somewhat ethereal: “You… willing to come with me to Kanto Stage?”
This was the final arrangement he, as an old superior, could make for this trusted subordinate who had followed him for over a decade.
Ichiro Hashishita didn’t answer immediately; he just silently smoked, the tiny red glow flickering uncertainly on his face.
After a long time, he stubbed out the cigarette butt in the roadside trash can, and said in a nearly stubborn, muffled voice: “Section Chief, I want… to stay.”
“I still want to rely on my own work to uprightly earn that third-class director position.”
Kiyoto Suzuki let out a long sigh upon hearing this.
He knew this subordinate’s temperament and the pride in his heart.
“Very well.”
He patted Ichiro Hashishita’s shoulder, his tone carrying a hint of regret: “Your promotion application failed this year; if you want to apply again, you’ll have to wait until next year. I originally wanted you to go to Hiroshi Nohara’s production team first, to handle the execution work for An Shizhi Season 3—that would make your resume look much better. But since you have your own plans, I won’t force you.”
He thought Ichiro Hashishita just couldn’t bring himself to work under a junior ten years younger than him.
He didn’t see the flash of stung humiliation and the intensely suppressed, almost twisted jealousy in Ichiro Hashishita’s eyes, hidden in the shadows, when he said the words “Hiroshi Nohara’s production team.”
“Mm.” Ichiro Hashishita just gave a muffled response, his voice squeezed out from his throat.
“I… have my own arrangements.”
And in his heart, he also thought of that man he and Masao Iwata had met that morning—the one on the same level as Deputy Director Asumi, even higher in status and power… Toshihide Takada.
At this moment, Ichiro Hashishita’s eyes flickered; when he glanced sidelong at Kiyoto Suzuki still smoking, a trace of guilt surfaced in his heart.
But thinking of how Kiyoto Suzuki had praised Hiroshi Nohara so much in front of Deputy Director Asumi.
Without even praising him once.
The trace of guilt in Ichiro Hashishita’s eyes vanished, replaced by utmost solemnity, and deep in his gaze, there was also a hint of smugness—
“There’s no An Shizhi Season 3 anymore.” His heart sneered; thinking of how Hiroshi Nohara could sit beside Deputy Director Asumi and be praised as Kanto Faction’s rising star Asumi, he became even more disdainful: “After all, Deputy Director Takada is personally planning to take over An Shizhi Season 3, and have me and Masao Iwata partner up!”
……
The night breeze, carrying the scent of alcohol and a slight chill, brushed over the neon signs on Tokyo streets that still showed no fatigue, slicing the light and shadow into fragments, then reassembling them on the icy asphalt into vivid ukiyo-e paintings spilling with flowing lights.
Ichiro Hashishita walked Kiyoto Suzuki to the bottom of his apartment building.
Watching the back of that once-mountain-like reliable senior, now stumbling from being soaked in alcohol and joy, his face was exceedingly complex.
Because he had already made his decision.
The deference and concern toward his junior that he had maintained all evening, like seawater after the tide recedes, was now rapidly fading soundlessly from his face.
Leaving only numbness.
He didn’t leave immediately, just stood under that dim yellow streetlight and lit a cigarette.
The red glow flickered on his face, the swirling blue smoke like his current chaotic thoughts, with no place to settle.
He didn’t know how long he stood there until the cigarette between his fingers burned out, the scorching heat stinging his skin; only then did he snap out of it, throw the cigarette butt into the roadside trash can, turn around, and prepare to melt into this night that belonged to him.
‘Clang!’
However, the instant he turned the street corner, a blinding headlight like two unsheathed sharp blades suddenly cut off both the darkness ahead and his retreat.
A black Toyota Century, like a giant beast lurking in the dark night, silently slid to a stop in front of him.
The car window slowly rolled down, revealing Masao Iwata’s face, always wearing a smirk and shrewd scheming.
He didn’t get out of the car, just leaned obliquely against the driver’s seat.
One hand on the steering wheel, eyeing Ichiro Hashishita—whose face looked somewhat unpleasant under the lights—with a cat-toying-with-a-mouse playful gaze.
“Yo, isn’t this Hashishita-kun?”
Masao Iwata’s voice carried teasing: “So loyal, huh? At this hour, still personally escorting that old guy Suzuki home. What, afraid he’d get drunk and accidentally drop that pathetic merit book into the sewer?”
Ichiro Hashishita’s lips pressed into a stiff line; he didn’t speak, but his tightly clenched fists betrayed the turmoil in his heart.
Looking at Masao Iwata’s smug face, at that luxury car still exuding power and status even in the dead of night, a stinging pain of public humiliation and the jealousy long rooted in his heart twisted like two entwined venomous vines, tightly strangling his heart.
“After all… Section Chief Suzuki took care of me before.”
He squeezed out this explanation from between his teeth, one that even he found pale and powerless.
“Ha? What the hell are you talking about, Hashishita-kun! Was that taking care of you? Look at Hiroshi Nohara now—just joined Tokyo Television Station less than a month ago and already a fourth-class director, same rank as you! You say that old fart Kiyoto Suzuki took good care of you before!?” Masao Iwata, upon hearing this, burst into an undisguised scoff as if he’d heard the funniest joke in the world.
But his laughter was cut off the next moment by a steadier, icier voice.
“Get in.”
The rear window had rolled down at some point.
In the shadows, a square-jawed face slowly emerged—not a face that could be described as handsome or ugly, but one bearing the deep gravity and pressure unique to long-time superiors.
It was Toshihide Takada.
“Deputy Director Takada!” Ichiro Hashishita’s heart contracted sharply; he straightened, bowed, and lowered his head using the honorific: “Didn’t expect you to be here too.”
Looking at those eyes still sharp as a hawk’s in the darkness, he felt all his disguises and struggles seemed so ridiculous, so exposed under that gaze.
He had no choice, and couldn’t choose.
He could only open the car door and sit inside this cage like a prisoner sentenced to punishment.
