Chapter 235: Reform! Kiyoto Suzuki’s Advice! Hiroshi Nohara’s Determination! Misae’s Well Wishes!
The Toyota Crown pulled up in front of Sakura Bloom Izakaya just as the seven o’clock bell rang.
Hiroshi pushed open the car door, and the evening breeze carried the aroma of grilled mackerel toward him—this izakaya tucked away on a backstreet in Ginza had a modest facade, with the two characters for “Sakura Bloom” on the wooden sign illuminated by warm yellow lights, glowing with a soft luster reminiscent of old photos from the Showa era.
As he stepped onto the stairs, he spotted a familiar figure sitting by the window.
Kiyoto Suzuki was wearing a dark blue wool sweater, with the top two buttons undone to reveal the white shirt underneath, staring blankly at the street scene outside.
The afterglow of the sunset had just faded, and the streetlights cast their glow on his gaunt cheeks, revealing fine wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, yet unable to conceal the steadiness in his gaze.
Hiroshi hurried over, bowed slightly, his tone laced with clear apology: “Suzuki-senpai, sorry to keep you waiting. There was some traffic on the way, so I arrived ten minutes late—making a senior wait for me is my rudeness.”
Kiyoto Suzuki snapped out of his reverie, saw it was him, and a gentle smile spread across his face as he waved it off: “Hey, Hiroshi-kun, you’re being too polite. I got here a little after five to talk business with an advertiser from Kanto Stage, but they said ‘we’d rather work with City Stage,’ so the meeting ended early. I was just waiting here for you anyway, so it doesn’t count.”
He gestured to the seat across from him: “Sit, sit. I’ve already asked the boss to hold our usual grilled mackerel and your favorite cold tofu—they just came out, still hot.”
Hiroshi sat down and noticed two small dishes already on the table: one with neatly cut cold tofu drizzled in light brown bonito flake sauce; the other with salt-grilled ginkgo nuts, their shells slightly crispy.
The izakaya’s boss was a white-haired old man who came over carrying a ceramic bowl, smiling at Hiroshi: “Mr. Nohara, it’s been a while! Last time you said our sake was too strong, so this time I saved some mild Akita-produced sake for you—low alcohol content, perfect with grilled mackerel.”
“Thank you for the trouble, Mr. Matsumoto.” Hiroshi nodded in thanks, his gaze sweeping over the next table—several men in suits were gathered around drinking, their conversation peppered with words like “housing prices” and “stock market,” punctuated by hearty laughs, a common sight in Tokyo nights at the end of the bubble economy.
Kiyoto Suzuki followed his gaze and sighed softly: “Business is tough these days. The one I was talking to earlier was Kanto’s ‘Marui Soy Sauce’—they partnered with Kanto Stage for ten years, spending 20 million yen on ads annually, but this year they said they’d shift the budget to Tokyo City Television. They said City Stage’s 《Tokyo Area Visits》 is filming their soy sauce factory and got Shunsuke Kamiki as host—young people love it, boosts sales.”
He picked up his freshly filled sake cup, took a sip, his tone full of helplessness: “Do you know how hard it is for Kanto Stage to land ads now? Last month, I went with Kanto Stage’s Advertising Department Director to five companies—four said ‘wait and see,’ one outright said ‘budget went to City Stage.’ Back in the day, Kanto Stage’s Advertising Department could sign 10 billion at the year-end investment promotion meeting; now, half a year in, only 3 billion, not even enough for Production Department’s salaries.”
Hiroshi picked up his chopsticks, took a piece of cold tofu, the delicate tofu wrapped in the freshness of bonito flakes, but he barely tasted it.
Looking at Kiyoto Suzuki’s weary expression, he suddenly understood why Suzuki had advised him over the phone not to take the job—this wasn’t just about making a program; it was about reviving Kanto Stage from a pile of messes before it cooled completely.
“Mr. Matsumoto, could you tidy up a private room? We want to discuss something.” Hiroshi suddenly looked up at the boss.
He knew the next conversation wasn’t suitable for the main area—Sakura Bloom’s private rooms had good soundproofing, their usual spot for work talks.
Old man Matsumoto nodded immediately: “Sure! It’s already prepared, the ‘Mats’ room at the far end of the second floor—I’ll take you up.”
The two followed the boss to the second floor; the private room was small, with an ink painting of cherry blossoms on the wall and charcoal burning in the corner heater, filling the room with warmth.
Matsumoto brought in the dishes and sake, smiling: “Enjoy, gentlemen. I’ll bring hot dishes in twenty minutes—no interruptions in between. Mr. Nohara’s favorite pan-fried foie gras is on the kitchen fire, guaranteed hot when it comes.”
“Thanks.” Hiroshi nodded, waiting for the boss to close the door before raising his sake cup to Kiyoto Suzuki: “Mr. Suzuki, first toast to you. No matter how tough things are at Kanto Stage, your willingness to tell me the truth means a lot—I’ll remember this favor.”
Kiyoto Suzuki raised his cup, clinking it lightly with Hiroshi’s; the crisp sound echoed in the quiet room: “You kid, pulling this with me. I watched you go from rookie to ‘100-billion director’—I don’t want you falling into Kanto Stage’s pit. Director Takada and Managing Director Asumi entrusting this to you is trust, but the twists here outnumber those in your 《World of the Strange》.”
He set down his cup, fingers tapping lightly on the table edge as if organizing his thoughts: “When you first joined Tokyo TV, you probably hadn’t heard about the old grudge between Tokyo TV and Kanto Stage. In the mid-80s, Kanto Stage was powerhouse! 《Kanto Scenery Painting》 hit 18% ratings, 3 points above our 《Tokyo Wide Angle》—advertisers fought to collaborate, even NHK poached their directors. Tokyo TV couldn’t stand it back then.”
Hiroshi’s hand paused on his sake cup; he’d heard of 《Kanto Scenery Painting》 but didn’t know the backstory.
“Tokyo TV’s station manager at the time was the current Governor of Tokyo Metropolis Ryuichi Koike—he told the board of directors ‘we must surpass Kanto Stage.’ How? Steal ad resources—Tokyo TV gave advertisers 30% discounts if they didn’t work with Kanto Stage; poach talent—double salaries for Kanto Stage’s core directors, promising production director roles; even steal time slots—Kanto Stage’s 《Kanto Scenery Painting》 aired Sunday at 8 PM, so Tokyo TV moved 《Tokyo Wide Angle》 to the same slot with the hottest female star as host.”
Kiyoto Suzuki’s voice grew heavier, tinged with bitter reminiscence: “They fought like that for over a decade, and Kanto Stage couldn’t hold out. Ad revenue halved, seven core directors left, 《Kanto Scenery Painting》 dropped to 8% ratings, capital chain snapped. Four years ago, Tokyo TV acquired it for 8.4 billion yen—called an acquisition, but more like picking up scraps; Kanto Stage’s debt alone was 50 billion then.”
Hiroshi frowned: “If it was acquired, why not integrate properly? Instead, letting it scrape by on rebroadcasts?”
“How not integrated?” Kiyoto Suzuki gave a wry smile. “Right after acquisition, Director Sakata was Production Bureau Director, tried merging Kanto Stage’s production team with Tokyo TV’s. Result? Tokyo Faction old-timers said ‘Kanto Stage people don’t get national programs,’ Kanto Faction old-timers said ‘Tokyo TV people too flashy’—daily fights, couldn’t even hold topic selection meetings. Sakata had no choice but to let Kanto Stage rebroadcast Tokyo TV programs first, wait out the storm—four years later, Kanto Stage’s vitality is gone.”
Just then, a knock sounded, and old man Matsumoto entered with hot dishes.
A plate of grilled mackerel, skin crispy and steaming; a plate of sukiyaki, beef sizzling in the pot; and pan-fried foie gras drizzled with blueberry sauce, its aroma instantly filling the room.
“Enjoy, gentlemen—I’ll head down.” Matsumoto set down the dishes and quietly closed the door.
Hiroshi took a piece of foie gras; its fatty richness mixed with blueberry’s sweet-tartness, melting delicately in his mouth.
Looking at Kiyoto Suzuki, he suddenly understood why Suzuki advised refusal—Tokyo TV used dirty tricks to suppress Kanto Stage back then; reviving it now would be “raising a tiger,” and once Kanto Stage rose, it’d compete for resources and audience.
“Mr. Suzuki, are you worried that if Kanto Stage truly revives, it’ll become Tokyo TV’s rival?” Hiroshi set down his chopsticks, asking earnestly.
Kiyoto Suzuki looked up, surprise in his eyes, then nodded: “You’re sharp. Tokyo TV’s Variety Department took annual ratings champ with 《Super Change Change Change》; Drama Department, your 《World of the Strange》《Late-night Diner》 dominate sub-golden slot; Film Department, your two movies grossed over 200 billion at box office. If Kanto Stage rises with local variety stealing ratings or rural drama grabbing ads, think Tokyo TV departments would allow it?”
He took another sip from his cup, tone rich with experience: “Last year Kouta Asano’s 《Warm Family》 hit just 15% ratings, and people said it ‘stole Kanto Stage rural drama audience’—Asano even fought Kanto Stage’s old screenwriter. Now lifting Kanto Stage, they’ll be even unhappier—you’d fight Kanto Stage old-timers and Tokyo TV insiders. Why bother?”
Hiroshi fell silent.
He’d only thought about making good programs and reviving Kanto Stage, not Tokyo TV’s internal interest entanglements.
As Suzuki said, TV stations weren’t just “making programs”—factions, profits, human relations were more complex than a movie or variety show.
“Then why do you think Station Manager Sakata assigned this to me?” Hiroshi suddenly asked.
He didn’t believe Nobuhiko Sakata couldn’t see the issues; entrusting it to him meant deeper calculations.
Kiyoto Suzuki set down his cup, eyes sharpening as if seeing through it: “Because of City Stage—Mikami Tanaka approved 10 billion ‘development fund’ for City Stage, had Kazuo Takahashi poach our people, clearly aiming to steal market. Kanto Region has 30 million viewers, a third of greater Tokyo area—if City Stage grabs it, Tokyo TV becomes ‘Tokyo City Television,’ no longer ‘greater Tokyo area’s leader.'”
He drew a circle on the table: “Sakata’s plan is ‘station against station’—revive Kanto Stage as Tokyo TV’s ‘local shield’ against City Stage. Kanto Stage knows local market, makes rural programs City Stage can’t, pulls local advertisers City Stage can’t. Once City Stage is suppressed, slowly integrate Kanto and Tokyo TV for ‘greater Tokyo program belt’—Tokyo TV does national variety, Kanto Stage local news and culture, clear division, no conflict.”
“But executing it won’t be easy, right?” Hiroshi pressed.
He knew Sakata’s idea was good, but underlings might not cooperate—Tokyo TV old-timers unwilling to share resources, Kanto old-timers unwilling to be managed, too many contradictions.
“Of course not easy.”
Kiyoto Suzuki sighed, taking a piece of sukiyaki beef: “Take Kanto Stage’s Production Department Director Yuichi Matsui—we worked together at Kanto Stage, stubborn as a bull, thinks Tokyo TV owes Kanto Stage. Making him cooperate with reform? No way. And Tokyo TV Variety Department—your 《Super Change Change Change》 is his baby; if Kanto Stage makes similar local variety, even if you create another, he’d storm Sakata’s office.”
Hiroshi raised his sake cup, the cool liquid clearing his mind further.
Looking at Kiyoto Suzuki, he suddenly smiled: “Mr. Suzuki, telling me this isn’t really to make me refuse—you want me to know the difficulties and prepare, right?”
Kiyoto Suzuki paused, then smiled too, wrinkles crinkling with gratification: “You kid, still so sharp. If I really wanted you to refuse, I wouldn’t say so much—Kanto Stage is tough bone, but opportunity too. Revive it, you’ll solidify your position and show ‘local programs’ value—more important than a few movies.”
He picked up chopsticks, took grilled mackerel, reminiscing: “Filming 《Kanto Scenery Painting》, interviewing countryside, an old woman said ‘hope TV shows more about our lives.’ Stations chase ‘big productions’ ‘national programs,’ forgetting local viewers need seeing. Your 《Late-night Diner》 fired up because close to ordinary lives—Kanto Stage reform same principle: make what audiences want, there’s hope.”
Hiroshi’s heart stirred.
Suzuki was right—Tokyo or Kanto, audiences wanted not “big productions” but content with “warmth,” like a bowl of cat food in 《Late-night Diner》 or rural tale in 《Kanto Scenery Painting》—what retains viewers.
“Mr. Suzuki, I’ve decided.” Hiroshi set down his cup, eyes resolute: “Tomorrow I’ll survey Kanto Stage, talk to Director Matsui and young screenwriters, hear their ideas. You’ve been at Kanto Stage, know people—can you connect me? Like Director Matsui, and that ‘old street visits’ screenwriter you mentioned.”
Kiyoto Suzuki saw his resolve, relaxed inwardly, smiled and nodded: “No problem! Matsui’s stubborn but gets programs—if good plan, he’ll cooperate. That Honda girl, I talked to her—full of ideas, just needs chance; give it, she’ll make good program.”
He raised his cup again to Hiroshi: “Another toast! Victory from the start—if trouble, call anytime. Can’t do much, but old Kanto Stage ties can bridge.”
Hiroshi clinked cups: “Thanks, Mr. Suzuki. Whatever the outcome, I’ll give my all—not for else, but audiences waiting for good Kanto Stage programs.”
Charcoal crackled in the heater, silhouetting them.
Night deepened outside; Sakura Bloom Izakaya’s lights spilled through windows onto the street like warm pearls.
Hiroshi eyed the dishes, suddenly hungry—mackerel’s freshness, sukiyaki’s sweetness, foie gras aroma, mingling with sake’s mildness; Tokyo night’s taste, “beginning’s” taste.
He knew the road ahead wouldn’t be easy.
Old-timer resistance, internal entanglements, City Stage competition—but he wasn’t afraid.
Like filming 《An Shizhi》 when no one believed, he persisted; 《Seven Samurai》 when “samurai films outdated,” he made something different.
Kanto Stage reform just another “program” needing heart—right direction, craft audience-loved stories.
“Right, Mr. Suzuki.” Hiroshi recalled: “You said Kanto Stage young screenwriters defecting badly—I want to select ten young ones to my Production Department for three months’ training. What do you think?”
Kiyoto Suzuki’s eyes lit: “Great idea! Young screenwriters need new production concepts; your team made hits—they’ll learn plenty, bring back to boost Kanto Stage team—easier than you teaching.”
He added smiling: “Tomorrow I’ll call Kanto Stage HR for young screenwriter list—you select during survey. Hashimoto and Ito going? One knows animation, one livelihood programs—big help.”
“Yeah, told them.” Hiroshi nodded. “Hashimoto checks animation materials, Ito discusses livelihood program ideas—smoother with them.”
They chatted more Kanto Stage details.
Old man Matsumoto refilled sake twice, seeing their rapport, smiled without interrupting.
Near nine, Hiroshi checked watch, stood: “Mr. Suzuki, getting late—you work tomorrow, I’ll drive you home.”
Kiyoto Suzuki stood, shook head smiling: “No need, home’s ten-minute walk. Head back—Misae-san’s waiting—don’t keep her.”
Hiroshi recalled pager from Misae, smiled: “Then to the door.”
They left room, downstairs; Matsumoto at counter calculating, smiled on seeing them: “Gentlemen, safe travels! Come again!”
Hiroshi thanked, walked Kiyoto Suzuki to door.
Streetlight stretched his shadow long.
“Hiroshi-kun, remember.” Kiyoto Suzuki stopped, serious: “Kanto Stage reform isn’t ‘port Tokyo TV programs to Kanto Stage’ but ‘make what Kanto audiences want.’ Don’t trip on internal entanglements or doubts—follow your ideas. You’ve always done that, right?”
Hiroshi warmed, nodded: “Got it, Mr. Suzuki.”
Kiyoto Suzuki patted his shoulder, walked into night.
Hiroshi watched his back vanish at corner, then started Toyota Crown.
Car cruised Ginza streets, neon flashing by.
Hiroshi gripped wheel, mind calm—Kanto Stage complex, but grasp “audience” core, solutions exist.
Like 《Late-night Diner》 boss, always warm bowl for any guest; he to give Kanto audiences warming program.
……
Toyota Crown reached apartment building at 9:30 PM.
Hiroshi turned off engine, grabbed detour-bought sweets from passenger seat—Ginza “Marina” patisserie’s cheese omelet still warm, strawberry cake in paper bag with ice pack, pale pink cream and red berries visible through packaging, what Misae craved last week.
At apartment door, he heard pencil scratching paper inside.
Opened door, warm yellow light from living room; Misae sprawled at tea table, clutching colored pencil, nose nearly touching drawing paper, so focused she missed his entry.
Tea table strewn with Kumamon design sketches: one Kumamon running at Aso mountain foot with strawberry daifuku; another in kimono at Kumamoto Castle festival; top one chocolate-stained, from snack mishap.
“Not asleep?” Hiroshi changed shoes, set sweets bag on entry cabinet, tiptoed over.
Misae looked up sharply, eyes lighting on seeing him, pencil clattering on table.
She pounced like bunny, arms around waist, cheek to suit jacket, voice sleepily soft: “Hiroshi-kun! You’re back! Waited forever, thought it’d be late!”
Hiroshi ruffled her hair, smelling faint orange shampoo: “Chatted long with Mr. Suzuki, detour for sweets—you wanted strawberry cake.”
“Strawberry cake?!” Misae released, eyes fixed on entry bag, dashed over, opened carefully, lifted cake.
Seeing sugar-frosted strawberries, she swallowed, turned to Hiroshi with fawning smile: “Hiroshi-kun, one piece first? Tiny one, then finish sketches.”
Hiroshi shook head helplessly, opened cake box: “Go ahead, just not on paper. Cheese omelet in kitchen—warm later, no good cold.”
“Yay!” Misae cheered, forked cake bite—cream sweetness, strawberry tartness melting, eyes squinted contentedly like cat with dried small fish: “Wow! So good! Better than Kumamoto honey cake! Hiroshi-kun, you too!”
She forked piece to his mouth, eyes sparkling.
Hiroshi took it, sweetness dissolving on tongue tip, fatigue easing.
On sofa, watching Misae nibble, fingers brushing sketches, noticed bottom paper’s Kumamon scarf embroidered “Hiroshi” in wobbly but earnest script.
“This final draft for prefectural office?” Hiroshi picked it, pointed to scarf.
Misae blushed, grabbed for paper: “No! Just doodle… Kumamon our idea, name fits—if prefectural office dislikes, I’ll change.”
Hiroshi returned paper, serious: “No change, looks great. Governor Muto’ll love—warm design, better than cold commercial illustrations.”
Misae took paper, soft “mm,” back to tea table, no more drawing.
She sneaked glance; Hiroshi on sofa, fingertips at brow, undisguised fatigue unlike usual poise.
“Hiroshi-kun, something bothering you?” Misae set pencil, sat beside, small hand on knee: “Pager said work chat with Mr. Suzuki—is Kanto Stage tough?”
Hiroshi opened eyes to her worry, sighed inwardly.
Didn’t want workplace worries for her, but Misae carefree yet perceptive to his moods.
“Yeah, bit tricky.” Hiroshi held her hand, feeling palm warmth: “Kanto Stage rough—old-timers resist reform, young gone, no ads. Director Takada and Managing Director Asumi made me content director, revive in three months or they punished, status hit.”
He summarized dilemma, omitted factions and entanglements to spare worry.
But Misae frowned, gripped hand tight: “…So tiring? You manage Production Department, now Kanto Stage too—no rest time?”
Hiroshi warmed, smiled shook head: “Fine, Hashimoto them handle Production alone. Mr. Suzuki helps—20+ years at Kanto Stage, knows it.”
“But…” Misae bit lip, looked up resolute: “I believe Hiroshi-kun can! 《An Shizhi》, all said ‘urban legends’ unwatched—you made hit; 《Seven Samurai》, ‘samurai outdated’—box office smashed. Kanto Stage hard, you’ll figure it!”
Paused, pulled tiny Kumamon keychain from pocket—yesterday’s fabric prototype, belly embroidered small sun.
She pressed into his hand: “For you! Amulet—take to Kanto Stage, smooth sailing!”
Hiroshi clutched soft keychain, heart full.
Her earnestness moved him; leaned, kissed forehead lightly: “Thanks, Misae. Your words give confidence for anything.”
Misae blushed crimson, head down, twisting hem: “T…then tomorrow Kanto Stage? Morning bento? Learned mom’s plum onigiri, yummy!”
“Sure.” Hiroshi smiled nodded. “But first station meet Director Takada them—early out, no early rise, convenience store breakfast fine.”
“No!” Misae head up, serious: “I’ll bento! Alarm at six, won’t delay!”
Hiroshi knew her resolve, nodded.
Chatted manga club—Misae said Kobayashi-san’s Kumamon merch drafts near done, next week to Kumamoto Prefectural Office, wants Hiroshi along; he agreed if free.
Near eleven, Misae yawned to bed, reminded: “Hiroshi-kun, sleep soon—no work thoughts, early tomorrow!”
Hiroshi watched her to bedroom, took Kanto Stage ops report from tea table, sofa-flipped.
Warm light on paper, dense data/problems less headachey.
Touched pocket Kumamon keychain, soft feel reassuring. Misae support, team help, Suzuki assist—toughest hurdles crossable.
Next morning 6:30, kitchen noises woke Hiroshi.
Out bedroom, Misae at stove in his apron, spatula in hand, carefully frying eggs.
Stove two bento boxes: one plum onigiri, other cut tamagoyaki and cherry tomatoes, beside his green tea bottle.
“Hiroshi-kun, awake!” Misae saw, waved spatula smiling: “Eggs soon done—five minutes, breakfast!”
Hiroshi hugged from back, chin on hair: “So early? Dark circles.”
“No!” Misae pouted, leaned in: “Alarmed—not sleepy. Let go, eggs burning!”
Hiroshi laughed, tightened apron strings.
Her earnest egg-frying: “reassurance” meant this—morning hot breakfast, caring person beside, motivation for hard work.
7:30, Hiroshi grabbed Misae’s bento, out on time.
Toyota Crown on morning Tokyo streets, few pedestrians—scattered suited office workers with convenience store onigiri and coffee, bubble economy weekday norm.
Tokyo Television Station underground parking lot just past eight.
Hiroshi opened door, saw Hashimoto and Ito at elevator, briefcases in hand, long arrived.
“Minister!” Hashimoto rushed, folder in grip: “Kanto Stage animation team materials you wanted, two young animators’ resumes selected yesterday—check.”
Ito handed file: “Minister, Xiang Shuishang boss diner reno progress—I checked yesterday, old photos hung, counter replicated from drama, done next week.”
Hiroshi took files, flipped, nodded: “Thanks. Meeting room first—short meet with section chiefs, assign work, then to Kanto Stage.”
“Yes Minister!” They chorused.
12th floor office area buzzing.
Yamamoto on phone with screenwriter on 《World of the Strange》 script tweaks, patient detailed;
Tanaka with 《Super Change Change Change》 contestant list, discussing revival match flow with variety staff.
Yō Kitagawa at desk sorting Kanto Stage entourage list, stood on Hiroshi’s entry: “Minister, here! Director Takada called—go straight to his office, Managing Director Asumi there too.”
“Got it.” Hiroshi nodded, handed bento: “Fridge in my office—eat when hungry.”
“Yes Minister!” Yō took, smiled at Kumamon print: “Misae-san made? Looks delicious.”
Hiroshi smiled, no more, to elevator.
Hashimoto and Ito trailed; eye contact showed expectation—long with Hiroshi, knew his new tasks surprised; Kanto Stage reform no exception.
Toshihide Takada’s office more solemn than yesterday.
Takada at desk with Kanto Stage ad report, brows knit.
Asumi by window, cigarette ash long, deep thought evident.
Hiroshi entered, Takada set report, smiled but eyes solemn: “Hiroshi, here. Sit—Miyazawa just brewed matcha, hot.”
Hiroshi sat, took cup from Miyazawa, direct: “Director, new Kanto Stage developments?”
Takada sighed, pushed report: “See—Kanto Stage last month ad revenue down 45% from last year. Even ten-year client Marui Soy Sauce shifted budget to City Stage. Kazuo Takahashi called yesterday—City Stage’s 《Tokyo Area Visits》 filming Kanto sights, Shunsuke Kamiki host, stealing our viewers.”
Asumi stubbed cigarette, sat by tea table, tone grave: “Worse, Kanto Stage old screenwriters jointly wrote Station Manager Sakata yesterday: ‘no Tokyo TV meddling.’ Send Tokyo Faction, they’ll mass quit. So Kanto Stage trip only Kanto Faction—less resistance.”
Hiroshi scanned report, red numbers glaring.
Looked up, calm resolute: “Understood. Chatted Suzuki yesterday—he’ll link Production Department Director Yuichi Matsui. Matsui stubborn but program-savvy—good plan, he’ll cooperate.”
“Good.” Takada relieved, leaned: “Hiroshi, all hopes on you for Kanto Stage reform. Station Manager Sakata said yesterday—if three months raise ratings, promote to Second-Class Director, add 10 billion production budget to your department.”
Hiroshi paused—Second-Class Director lifetime goal for many; at 23, it’d solidify status. But
No over-excitement, calm: “Thanks Director and Station Manager’s trust. I’ll do utmost—not for else, not waste efforts.”
Takada pleased at poise—talent without arrogance, far above puffed juniors.
Nodded: “Good! Bus ready downstairs, entourage arranged by Asumi—all ex-Kanto Stage now Tokyo TV, know folks, easy docking.”
Asumi stood, grabbed jacket from chair back: “Let’s go—aim ten before Kanto Stage, meet Matsui them, grasp Production details.”
Hiroshi nodded, followed out. Elevator, Asumi patted shoulder, low: “Didn’t say earlier—you dined Suzuki yesterday, why no invite? Known him 15 years, could’ve chatted Kanto Stage.”
Hiroshi laughed: “Impromptu with Suzuki, no time tell. Next time, my treat you and Suzuki drinking.”
“Better.” Asumi smirked, tension eased: “Right, Suzuki called this morning—meeting Kanto ‘Asakusa-ya Ramen’ for ads, back Kanto Stage noon, straight to meeting room.”
“Asakusa-ya Ramen?” Hiroshi recalled ad woes, sighed: “Suzuki-san’s tough—senior yet running around.”
“Indeed.” Asumi sighed: “Suzuki waist surgery last year, doctor rest—but frets Kanto Stage, daily ad runs. Revive it, eases his mind.”
Elevator opened, bus waiting.
Tokyo Television logo on side, familiar faces inside—ex-Kanto Stage now Tokyo TV Variety/Drama, Hiroshi collaborated on 《World of the Strange》 filming; one Sato directed “old postman” segment.
“Minister Nohara!” They stood on sight, respectful smiles, nodding greetings.
Hiroshi boarded, smiled: “Mr. Sato, Mr. Watanabe, long time no see. Thanks joining Kanto Stage trip.”
Sato waved: “Too polite Minister! Honor working you. Your ‘old postman’ guidance on details—I remember!”
Watanabe chimed: “Yes Minister! Took family to 《Seven Samurai》—dad said true samurai film, better than Kurosawa!”
Hiroshi chatted briefly, window seat. Asumi beside, noted warm chats: “See, ex-Kanto Stage, sentimental, admire your talent—Matsui less resistant. Tokyo Faction? Fights before arrival.”
Hiroshi nodded, looked out.
Bus left Tokyo Television parking, toward Kanto Stage.
Traffic built, roadside real estate shops open, “Minato Ward luxury apartments” posters eye-catching, bubble fervor thick in morning streets.
“Minister.” Front-seat Sato turned, notebook: “Called old Kanto Stage colleague yesterday—Matsui Director clashing young screenwriters; Honda girl’s ‘old street visits’ doc rejected as unwatched, she’s sulking.”
Hiroshi noted—Honda the ideas girl Suzuki mentioned.
Penned “Honda—old street visits proposal,” to Sato: “Thanks Mr. Sato. At Kanto Stage, greet Honda for me—want chat proposal, Matsui agree or not, hear her ideas.”
“Yes Minister!” Sato excited—liked proposal, Matsui stubborn; Hiroshi backing might make doc.
Bus lively, reminiscing Kanto Stage: countryside interviews for 《Kanto Scenery Painting》, old women boiled sweet potatoes; annual parties singing Kanto folk, festive. Someone hummed 《Kanto Scenery Painting》 theme, nostalgic melody filling bus.
Asumi watched, soft sigh to Hiroshi: “See, all miss Kanto Stage. Was lively—Production overtime to late, then downstairs izakaya drinks, program/future chats. Now scattered, no shared overtime.”
Hiroshi quiet moment: “Will improve. Good programs show hope, hearts gather—like 《Late-night Diner》 guests return for wanted food, missed people.”
Asumi nodded to resolute eyes.
Felt Sakata assigning Hiroshi rightest—young man founds “warmth” in despair to persist.
Bus over hour, reached Kanto Television Station.
Building older than Tokyo TV, tiles peeling, decade-old sign, shabby.
Door two suited staff, approached bus: “Tokyo TV folks? Director sent us—meeting room ready.”
Hiroshi off bus, eyed building with a sense of emotion—this housed dreams, birthed 《Kanto Scenery Painting》 classics, now rebroadcast survival.
Deep breath, gripped pocket Kumamon keychain—Misae’s “Hiroshi-kun can!” echoed; yes, revive this old building.
“Let’s go.” Hiroshi turned, calm powerful: “Inside, chat properly with Director Matsui.”
Group followed into Kanto Stage building.
Corridor quiet, sporadic printer hum; walls old program posters, dusty.
Hiroshi saw, resolve firmer—however hard, save Kanto Stage, for station hopes, waiting audiences, past strivers here.
