Chapter 236: Nobuhiko Sakata And Toshihide Takada’s Exchange! Protection For Hiroshi Nohara!
On the top floor of the Tokyo Television Station headquarters building, the door to the Station Manager’s office was gently pushed open.
Toshihide Takada clutched a thick stack of Kanto Stage financial reports, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing the edges of the paper, leaving faint marks—the red text on the reports stating “Advertising revenue down 45% year-over-year” and “Original programs account for less than 8%” was as glaring as needles.
The office was filled with the faint aroma of Uji matcha.
Nobuhiko Sakata was sitting behind the rosewood desk by the window, holding a yellowed old photo in his hand—the photo showed him and Ryuichi Koike twenty years ago, both dressed in crisp suits, standing in front of the old Tokyo TV office building, their smiles full of the youthful ambition of their younger days.
In the corner of the desk sat an unsheathed samurai sword, the cherry blossom pattern on the scabbard somewhat faded, but it was an item inherited from his father that Sakata rarely showed to others.
“Director Sakata, here’s the monthly report for Kanto Stage that you requested.” Takada placed the reports on the desk, and as he bowed, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes became especially prominent. “I just confirmed with the Finance Department. Kanto Stage’s production budget exceeded by two hundred million last month, and the Advertising Department only secured one hundred and thirty million in new partnerships—not even enough to pay the employees’ bonuses.”
Sakata set down the photo, his fingertips lightly tapping the cover of the report, his voice carrying the steady calm unique to old-school managers: “Asumi and Hiroshi went to Kanto Stage this morning, right?”
“Yes.” Takada nodded, pulling over a nearby chair and sitting down, leaning slightly forward. “Miyazawa just came to report. The bus left on time at nine, accompanied by former Kanto Stage veteran employees, including Sato and Watanabe—the two directors who previously collaborated with Hiroshi on World of the Strange.”
Sakata hummed in acknowledgment, picked up the rough pottery tea cup from the desk, and took a sip, the slight bitterness of the matcha spreading in his mouth.
He looked out at the bustling traffic on Tokyo streets, his gaze gradually becoming complex: “Kanto Stage has been a mess since we acquired it four years ago. Asumi camped out there for half a year, his hair turned quite a bit gray, but he still couldn’t turn it around. Now handing it to Hiroshi is really putting that kid in a tough spot.”
Hearing the word “tough spot,” Takada couldn’t help but frown, his tone laced with regret: “Indeed, Director. What kind of person is Hiroshi-kun? At 23, he won Best New Director at the Tokyo International Film Festival, Seven Samurai broke 8.9 billion at the box office, The Tale of Hachiko broke 10 billion, and Super Change Change Change is now the number one variety show in national ratings—every project in his hands is a cash cow for the station. Making him clean up Kanto Stage’s mess now is like using a precious samurai sword to chop vegetables. What a waste.”
He paused, his finger tapping on the line in the report reading “Average age of Kanto Stage employees: 48 years old”: “And you know how stubborn Kanto Stage’s veteran employees are. That old guy Yuichi Matsui doesn’t even give Asumi face. If Hiroshi-kun goes, who knows how much grief he’ll face. If it backfires, it’ll hurt his reputation, and it’s not worth it.”
Sakata suddenly laughed upon hearing this.
He set down his tea cup, leaned back in his chair, his gaze falling on Takada’s face—this man who used to always think of Tokyo Faction interests and even looked at Asumi with hostility was now actually worrying about Hiroshi’s reputation. He was much more perceptive than before.
“If the old you could see how much you’re thinking for Nohara now, you wouldn’t believe it.”
Sakata’s tone carried a bit of teasing: “Remember when the first season of An Shizhi aired last year? You backed Masao Iwata’s Oni-bō Samurai, saying ‘What urban legends? This niche theme is doomed to fail.’ And the result? An Shizhi hit 12% ratings, Oni-bō Samurai didn’t even reach 5%, and at the Production Bureau meeting, your face must have been priceless.”
A flash of embarrassment crossed Takada’s face. He touched his nose and smiled wryly: “Director, why bring that up… I was young and hot-headed back then, couldn’t see clearly. It’s different now. As Director of Production Bureau, I have to consider the interests of the entire Tokyo TV. Hiroshi-kun is the station’s treasure. If he breaks a wing because of Kanto Stage, it’s a loss for all of Tokyo TV.”
“So you think sending him to Kanto Stage is a waste?” Sakata pressed, his gaze sharpening.
“…Yes.” Takada hesitated but nodded. “At least for now. If we wait until he’s a few years more mature, say after thirty, with a few big projects in hand, then sending him to integrate Kanto Stage would be legitimate, and no one would dare question it. He’s too young now. Even with ability, he can’t suppress those old foxes.”
Sakata didn’t refute immediately. Instead, he stood and walked to the window, his fingers lightly brushing the asparagus fern on the windowsill—it was a gift from Ryuichi Koike when he first became Station Manager, now lush and thriving.
He was silent for a few seconds before slowly speaking: “You’re only seeing the surface.”
“The surface?” Takada was stunned. “Director, what do you mean…”
“Nohara’s biggest problem is that he’s too outstanding.”
Sakata turned around, his tone growing more solemn: “23 years old, Third-Class Director, Head of Independent Production Department, key manga artist at Shueisha—do you know how many people in the station are watching him from behind? Keiko Matsumoto says he’s ‘full of promise,’ but privately told me ‘young people who succeed too easily are prone to falls.’ Senior Eiji Kurosawa admires him, but which of those old directors in the Kurosawa faction doesn’t envy him for directing a samurai film like Seven Samurai?”
He walked over to Takada, picked up a copy of Asahi Shimbun from the desk, and pointed to the entertainment section headline—a photo of Hiroshi at the Tokyo Film Festival last month, with the title “Japan’s youngest film director, a pride of Japan.”
“Look at this.” Sakata’s finger tapped heavily on the headline. “The media is hyping him up this much, but a tall tree attracts the wind. Mikami Tanaka has long noticed him—last time at Tokyo City Television’s investment promotion meeting, Tokugawa Sato publicly said he wanted to invite Hiroshi Nohara to direct a variety show. That’s not admiration; it’s probing. If Hiroshi really stays at Tokyo TV, right in the storm’s center, he’ll get swept up sooner or later.”
Takada’s brows furrowed tighter. He’d only considered Kanto Stage’s difficulties before, not realizing the external pressures Hiroshi faced.
He looked at Sakata, his tone puzzled: “So you’re sending him to Kanto Stage to shield him from these? But Kanto Stage isn’t far from Tokyo, and… it’s leaving the center of power. He won’t be involved in key meetings, project approvals, resource allocation. Over time, won’t he get marginalized?”
“Marginalized?”
Sakata smiled and shook his head: “You misunderstand power. Real power isn’t signing papers in meetings every day; it’s holding something others can’t take. If Hiroshi can turn Kanto Stage around, he’ll have the resources of 30 million viewers in the Kanto Region, plus connections with local businesses—no one will dare treat him as marginal even if he’s not at Tokyo TV headquarters.”
He paused, his tone heavier: “And do you think the current struggle is just competition between Tokyo TV and City Stage? No. This is Governor Koike’s Greater Tokyo Reform faction versus the real estate faction behind Mikami Tanaka. Why does Tokugawa Sato support City Stage? Because Mikami Tanaka promised him New Shinjuku land if elected mayor. Why is former President Shimazu running for mayor? Because he’s Governor Koike’s man, to protect Greater Tokyo reform achievements.”
Takada’s expression changed—he’d heard whispers of this political level but hadn’t realized it connected to Hiroshi. He opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by Sakata raising his hand.
“If Nohara were at the center of Tokyo TV now, he’d get dragged into this fight sooner or later.”
Sakata’s voice held a trace of helplessness: “He directed Super Change Change Change, promoting human connections, and Governor Koike praised him for ‘changing neon indifference.’ He directed Late-night Diner, reflecting ordinary lives, and Mikami Tanaka called it ‘the most authentic Tokyo story’—both sides want to pull him over. Do you think a 23-year-old can withstand that?”
“What if he picks the wrong side?” Takada asked instinctively, his tone worried.
“Then he’s done for.”
Sakata’s gaze turned icy cold: “Either abandoned by Governor Koike or suppressed by Mikami Tanaka. Forget Independent Production Department—he might not even stay at Tokyo TV. And even if he doesn’t pick sides, neither will let him off—enemies will suppress him, allies will envy him. How long do you think he can hold out?”
Takada fell silent.
He recalled overhearing two old directors in the Production Bureau corridor a few days ago saying “Hiroshi Nohara is just lucky; without Director Sakata protecting him, would he be where he is?” And the Variety Department Director, complaining over drinks last time that “Super Change Change Change took too much budget; other variety shows are almost out of funds”—these dissatisfied voices, which he ignored before, were all undercurrents aimed at Hiroshi.
“So you’re sending him to Kanto Stage to protect him?” Takada looked up, realization dawning in his eyes.
“Yes.” Sakata nodded, returned to his desk, and picked up the matcha again: “Kanto Stage is a mess, but also a refuge. Far from Tokyo’s political struggles, he can focus on making programs and building his team—those young directors selected from Kanto Stage will be his people. Even if something happens at Tokyo TV later, he’ll have a foundation in Kanto, not left with nothing.”
He sighed, his tone tinged with emotion: “If Hiroshi were in his forties, I’d definitely involve him—Shimazu’s mayoral campaign, he could make documentaries promoting reform; Tanaka’s pressure, he could counter with World of the Strange ratings. Great resume material. But he’s only 23 now, with at least 40 years ahead. Pushing him to the front now is too cruel.”
Takada nodded silently, fully understanding Sakata’s intent. What he saw as waste before was now the safest protection.
Looking at the Kanto Stage report on the desk, he suddenly felt those red numbers weren’t so glaring anymore—because behind them lay deep regard for a young man.
“Director, I understand.” Takada’s tone grew solemn. “I was too shallow before. Whatever support Hiroshi-kun needs at Kanto Stage, Production Bureau will fully cooperate—budget, resources, whatever he asks, I’ll coordinate immediately.”
“Mm.”
Sakata nodded in satisfaction, leaning back in his chair, his tense shoulders relaxing a bit. “Good that you see it. Actually, I don’t expect results from Kanto Stage reform in three months—that’s for show. The real goal is for him to establish footing there, build his influence, and return after this disturbance passes.”
“Disturbance?” Takada keenly caught the word. “Director, you mean… former President Shimazu’s campaign?”
Sakata’s gaze darkened. He picked up the samurai sword from the desk, gently drawing a few inches, the blade gleaming coldly in the sunlight: “Shimazu’s odds are 55 to 45. Mikami Tanaka has high council support, plus Tokugawa Sato’s funding and City Stage as a propaganda tool. Tough opponent.”
He sheathed the sword, his voice low: “If Shimazu loses, Tokyo TV is in trouble. Tanaka will send Kazuo Takahashi to stir things up, Production Bureau staff changes, programs altered. We who followed Yoshihiro Shimazu won’t have easy days.”
Takada’s face changed instantly—he knew Shimazu was running but not how dire, potentially threatening Tokyo TV’s survival.
He opened his mouth to say “It won’t be that bad,” but seeing Sakata’s solemn expression, swallowed the words.
“So I must prepare for the worst.”
Sakata’s tone was calm but firm: “Hiroshi to Kanto Stage is for if Tokyo TV faces crisis, he can hold the line there—Kanto Stage is our backup, and his. As long as he’s there, Tokyo TV has a chance to turn it around.”
Takada looked at Sakata, a surge of admiration rising in his heart.
This 61-year-old man was considering not just Tokyo TV’s present but paving its future, even plotting for a young director’s career. What he saw as steady conservatism before was now revealed as vast scope and responsibility.
“Director, rest assured.” Takada stood and bowed, his tone more solemn than ever. “I’ll fully cooperate to protect Hiroshi-kun and hold Production Bureau. No matter the outcome, I won’t let Tokyo TV fall.”
Sakata looked at him, smiled, and waved: “Sit, no need to be so formal. We’re not there yet, just planning ahead. By the way, have you told Asumi these things?”
“No.” Takada shook his head. “I only heard this from you today. Before, I just knew to have him support Hiroshi’s Kanto Stage reform.”
“Then don’t tell him.” Sakata said. “Asumi overthinks; knowing would add pressure. Have him assist Hiroshi with daily Kanto Stage affairs. We’ll handle the politics.”
“Yes.” Takada nodded.
Sakata picked up the Kanto Stage report again, flipping to the “Young Directors List” page, his finger pausing on “Nao Honda”—the young director previously recommended by Kiyoto Suzuki for an “Old Street Visits” documentary.
He smiled at Takada: “This Honda is said to have great ideas, just suppressed by Matsui. Hiroshi will surely promote her—maybe this young woman becomes the breakthrough for Kanto Stage reform.”
Takada leaned over to look, smiling: “Hiroshi-kun excels at spotting talent. Hashimoto, Yamamoto, Ito—which weren’t promoted from ordinary directors to section chiefs under him? If Honda has real talent, he’ll bring her out.”
“Mm.”
Sakata nodded, set the report down, and took a sip from his tea cup. “Right, add two hundred million to Hiroshi’s Independent Production Department budget next month—say it’s for An Shizhi season four production, but let him allocate flexibly. If Kanto Stage needs funds, it can be supplemented promptly.”
“Got it, I’ll have Finance Department arrange tomorrow.” Takada noted it immediately.
The office returned to calm, only occasional car horns from outside and the light clink of Sakata’s tea cup on the desk.
Takada looked at Sakata, suddenly feeling his earlier worries unnecessary—with such a far-sighted leader as Sakata and such a talented young man as Hiroshi, even if Kanto Stage was a mess and facing political pressure, Tokyo TV would surely endure.
“By the way, Director.” Takada suddenly remembered something. “Miyazawa told me yesterday City Stage started filming Tokyo Surrounds Visits, first stop Kanto’s Senso-ji Temple, with Shunsuke Kamiki as host. Should we have Hiroshi-kun do a similar show to compete?”
Sakata shook his head, tone confident: “No need. Hiroshi has his own ideas; he won’t follow City Stage’s rhythm. Wait and see—he’ll make something different, highlighting Kanto characteristics while attracting viewers, like his ‘Kumamon’ in Kumamoto. What others can’t think of, he always can.”
Takada recalled Kumamon’s current popularity—not just Kumamoto Prefecture’s mascot, but with merchandise, manga, even animation in the works—and felt confidence rise too.
He nodded with a smile: “You’re right. Hiroshi-kun never disappoints.”
Sakata looked out the window, expectation in his eyes.
Sunlight filtered through the glass, falling on him, stretching his shadow long.
He knew this game for Tokyo TV’s future had just begun.
And Hiroshi Nohara, this 23-year-old, would be the key piece—not for charging into battle, but to guard hope and await the future.
“It’ll be fine.” Sakata said softly, as if to Takada or himself. “As long as we hold steady, and Hiroshi establishes footing at Kanto Stage, Tokyo TV will be fine.”
Takada met Sakata’s firm gaze and nodded vigorously.
The matcha aroma in the office seemed richer, carrying warmth and hope, quietly spreading in this Tokyo morning at the end of the bubble economy.
……
In front of Kanto Television Station’s office building, autumn wind swirled a few dry ginkgo leaves, sticking to the mottled exterior tiles—those tiles repasted ten years ago during Kanto Scenery Painting’s hot run, now with curling edges revealing dark cement beneath.
The display boards by the entrance still had last year’s posters for rebroadcasting Tokyo TV’s An Shizhi, edges curled, the “12% ratings” in the upper right blurred by rain.
Just after 10 a.m., five men in dark gray suits clustered by the display board, clutching folders but not looking at them—their gazes stuck on the distant intersection, occasionally checking quartz watches on their wrists, knuckles white from gripping.
These five were Kanto Stage’s mid-level core.
Leftmost was Deputy Director of Production Ryuji Yamada, hair combed impeccably but unable to hide white at his temples; he’d been at Kanto Stage thirty years with Yuichi Matsui, a true veteran.
Next to him, Advertising Department Director Ken Fujishita, beer belly straining his suit, still pinching half an uneaten tuna sandwich—he’d botched ad talks with Asakusaya ramen owner that morning, skipping breakfast.
In the middle, Human Resources Director Hiroshi Kimura, wearing round-rimmed glasses, always talking about “rules,” but secretly raised veteran employee subsidies twice after Tokyo TV acquisition.
Right side, Planning Department Deputy Director Kojiro Kobayashi, his notebook filled with densely rejected program proposals from the past half year.
Farthest right, Technical Department Director Shigeru Saito, expressionless, clutching a black pager, silent—the quietest of the five, but most equipment-savvy, keeping Kanto Stage’s near-obsolete cameras running.
“Mr. Yamada, you’re sure it’s 10 a.m. today?”
Ken Fujishita bit into his sandwich, crumbs falling on his suit lapel; he brushed them off casually, tone anxious. “Just talked to Asakusaya’s owner. City Stage was there yesterday, offering 20% higher ad slots, even saying they’d get Shunsuke Kamiki to shoot a promo for the ramen shop—if this continues, Advertising Department will be drinking northwest wind this month.”
Yamada frowned, adjusting his tie—last year’s conference gift, edges worn shiny: “Miyazawa’s secretary called this morning via desk phone, no mistake. Managing Director Asumi leading personally, plus Deputy Station Manager Takada—you forgot? Takada’s still nominally Kanto Stage’s Station Manager; his coming means it’s about reform.”
“Managing Director Asumi…”
Ken Fujishita’s sandwich suddenly lost its appeal. He set down the packaging bag, tone complex: “Speaking of, Asumi was from Kanto Stage too, right? Ten years ago, he was Production Bureau Deputy Director, directed Kanto Scenery Painting with Mr. Suzuki. He really protected us back then—after Tokyo TV acquisition, he was transferred there, hasn’t been back much these years.”
Kimura adjusted his glasses, voice softer but firm: “More than protected. When Tokyo TV wanted to dismantle our production team to Tokyo, Asumi argued with Director Sakata, saying ‘Kanto Stage’s roots are in Kanto; dismantle the team and it loses its soul,’ saving our Production Department. With him coordinating this time, Matsui side will resist less—he’s old leadership, face must be given.”
“Face?”
Kojiro Kobayashi interjected, flipping his notebook to the “Tokyo TV Personnel List” page, finger tapping “Asumi”: “After four years at Tokyo TV, will Asumi still side with us like before? Last month delivering proposals there, I heard Variety Department say he’s close with Deputy Station Manager Takada now, tone just like Tokyo TV people—always ‘Greater Tokyo Circle,’ never mentioning ‘Kanto Stage’?”
Yamada’s face darkened, but no rebuttal.
Kobayashi spoke truth. Last year Kanto Stage’s production budget request was approved by Asumi but three hundred million short, reason “Tokyo TV HQ’s Super Change Change Change needs extra funds.” He’d felt then Asumi had changed.
“Kobayashi-san, can’t say it like that.”
Kimura sighed, pulling a mint from his pocket and offering it to Kojiro Kobayashi: “Last winter our Technical Department’s cameras broke; Asumi quietly transferred two from Tokyo TV without procedure—if he’d forgotten Kanto Stage, why risk it? His position at Tokyo TV is tough, balancing Director Sakata’s ‘Greater Tokyo Circle’ policy and us old subordinates’ expectations, caught in the middle.”
Ken Fujishita chewed his sandwich, mumbling agreement: “Mr. Kimura’s right. If Asumi wanted distance, he wouldn’t come personally this time, just send a subordinate. Him coming means he still cares about Kanto Stage—at least Tokyo TV won’t push us too hard.”
Yamada nodded, gaze back to the intersection, tone softening: “Actually, I spoke with Kiyoto Suzuki last month. He said Asumi’s been pushing Director Sakata for more autonomy for Kanto Stage—this reform shouldn’t force Tokyo TV programs on us like before.”
“Kiyoto Suzuki…”
Kojiro Kobayashi’s tone softened. When he joined Kanto Stage, Suzuki was Production Department Director, guiding him on local drama shorts: “Pity Suzuki-san isn’t here. If he were, Matsui Director would listen—they’re decades-long partners. Directed and scripted Kanto Scenery Painting together, perfect tacit understanding.”
Saito suddenly looked up, spinning his pager, voice low like muffled thunder: “Suzuki-san’s pulling ads. His secretary said this morning he went to Marui Soy Sauce—they partnered ten years, but shifted budget to City Stage this year. Suzuki-san wants to win it back.”
Silence fell.
Marui Soy Sauce was Kanto Stage’s old client, twenty million annual ad spend key to Advertising Department revenue—losing it meant real trouble.
Ken Fujishita patted his beer belly, sighed: “If Suzuki-san pulls Marui Soy Sauce back, Advertising Department can breathe this month. But speaking of, besides Managing Director Asumi and Deputy Station Manager Takada, who’s else coming? Just them?”
Yamada was about to speak when his pager beeped twice—message from Miyazawa’s secretary: “Tokyo TV bus past Meiji intersection, accompanying personnel include Hiroshi Nohara.”
“Hiroshi Nohara?!” Yamada’s eyes lit up reading it, voice rising: “The Hiroshi Nohara who directed Seven Samurai?”
“Which Hiroshi Nohara?”
Ken Fujishita froze, then realized, sandwich bag dropping: “The 23-year-old who won Best Director at Tokyo International Film Festival? And Super Change Change Change—my kid watches it daily, says it’s way better than City Stage’s talent show!”
Kojiro Kobayashi’s notebook flipped to the last page, Hiroshi Nohara’s resume copied from Tokyo TV archives yesterday: “More than that! He’s the animation father of An Shizhi, created ‘urban legends’ genre, plus manga Yu Yu Hakusho and Doraemon, key signed artist at Shueisha—Doraemon, my daughter watches daily, wants a gadget cat pocket.”
“23?”
Kimura adjusted his glasses, incredulous: “At 23 I was fetching coffee for seniors; he’s got Best Director? Saw Seven Samurai in theaters—lenses more authentic than Senior Eiji Kurosawa’s samurai films. Kurosawa’s notoriously stubborn, yet reportedly became go buddies with Hiroshi Nohara, playing go daily.”
Yamada nodded, tapping his pager, tone reflective: “Heard Independent Production Department was exceptionally approved for him—only elite Second-Class Directors get that; he’s Third-Class. Director Sakata really values him. Sending him to Kanto Stage—maybe to help us make programs?”
“Make programs?”
Ken Fujishita scratched his head, picking up the bag: “But he does movies and variety; we focus local news and local dramas. Will he get it? And so young—can our old directors submit? Matsui Director defies even Managing Director Asumi, let alone a 23-year-old.”
Saito spoke again, low tone more serious: “He gets it. Seen Late-night Diner? Ordinary lives, like our old local dramas—he captures the ‘warmth’ audiences want, most important. And innovative: An Shizhi doubted but he made it hit; Super Change Change Change unexpected national ratings top—Kanto Stage needs exactly this breakout person.”
Kojiro Kobayashi nodded: “Mr. Saito’s right. In his interview, he said ‘Programs are for audiences, not judges’—just like Kiyoto Suzuki used to say. If he makes down-to-earth shows, maybe pull back young viewers. Our average viewer age nearly 50; unchanged, City Stage will crush us.”
“But why him for reform?”
Ken Fujishita still puzzled, kicking ginkgo leaves: “Tokyo TV has many directors—Kouta Asano good at heartwarmers, Soji Ashikaga at period pieces. Why Hiroshi Nohara, with so many projects? Can he handle?”
Yamada sighed, gaze distant—bus shadow visible at intersection, Tokyo TV logo prominent: “Probably City Stage. They launch Tokyo Surrounds Visits next month, Shunsuke Kamiki hosting, clearly poaching our Kanto viewers. Hiroshi’s programs draw crowds; with him, we can compete—and he clashes with Tokugawa Sato, City Stage’s sugar daddy. Hiroshi won’t let City Stage off easy.”
“Tokugawa Sato…”
Kojiro Kobayashi frowned: “Kirin Group boss? Heard he tried poaching Hiroshi Nohara to Kirin Entertainment Agency, rejected—so yes, natural foes with City Stage.”
Kimura suddenly recalled, lowering voice: “Heard former President Shimazu’s mayoral run got lots of advice from Hiroshi Nohara, like ‘information cocoon’—Shimazu’s support rate rising fast; Mikami Tanaka must be anxious. City Stage’s Tokyo Surrounds Visits maybe to pull votes for Tanaka. Hiroshi to Kanto Stage could help Shimazu with Kanto voters.”
Silence again.
Politics they mid-levels avoided, but knew Kanto Stage reform was no longer just “making programs.”
“Pity Suzuki-san absent.”
Yamada mentioned again, full of regret: “If Suzuki-san were here, he’d click with Hiroshi Nohara—Suzuki’s his senior, Asumi’s old subordinate. He’d bridge; Matsui Director less resistant. Matsui’s wary of Tokyo TV now—last time Asumi sent young directors to help, he said ‘Kanto Stage affairs no outsiders,’ sent them back.”
“Matsui Director has no choice.”
Ken Fujishita sighed: “Thirty years with Kanto Stage, from glory to now—hurts his heart. Over drinks last time, he said ‘Without local flavor, not Kanto Stage’—fears Tokyo TV uprooting our roots.”
Kojiro Kobayashi shook head, notebook rustling: “But can’t stay unchanged. Original programs under 8%, relying on Tokyo TV rebroadcasts; ad revenue down 45%, Production cameras nearly inoperable. HR stats last month: five young directors poached by City Stage—unchanged, we’re done.”
Saito gripped pager, knuckles white: “Will change. Managing Director Asumi coming, Hiroshi Nohara coming, Suzuki-san pulling ads for us—as long as we don’t give up, hope remains.”
As he spoke, the bus reached the intersection, gleaming in sunlight, slowly approaching Kanto Stage.
“Here!”
Yamada straightened instantly, smoothing suit hem: “Look sharp, don’t let Tokyo TV laugh at us. Mr. Fujishita, toss that sandwich bag; Mr. Kimura, wipe glasses; Mr. Kobayashi, pocket notebook—we’re Kanto Stage mid-level, can’t seem lacking confidence.”
They hurriedly adjusted attire.
Ken Fujishita stuffed bag in pocket, brushed crumbs off suit.
Kimura pulled glasses cloth from pocket, carefully cleaning lenses.
Kojiro Kobayashi closed notebook, tucked under arm.
Saito pocketed pager, face unchanged but stance straighter.
Bus stopped at Kanto Stage entrance, door hissing open. First out: Asumi, in dark gray windbreaker, hair neat, black briefcase in hand, unsmiling but steady aura.
Steady, his gaze swept the five at entrance, pausing on Yamada a few seconds, nodding lightly.
Next, Toshihide Takada in navy suit, belly more prominent than Fujishita’s, clutching thermos, formulaic smile, but eyes complex seeing Kanto Stage old building.
Last, Hiroshi Nohara—black suit, younger than Asumi and Takada, standing straight, brown briefcase holding Kanto Stage materials and Yō Kitagawa’s director list.
Just off bus, his gaze fell on Kanto Scenery Painting old poster on office wall, calm but brief, quickly to the five, slight bow.
“Mr. Yamada, Mr. Fujishita, Mr. Kimura, Mr. Kobayashi, Mr. Saito.” Asumi approached, tone softer, shaking Yamada’s hand: “Long time no see. How have you all been?”
Yamada gripped back, hand trembling: “Managing Director Asumi, long time no see. We’re fine, just… station’s been tough lately, sorry to trouble you.”
“All in a day’s work.”
Asumi smiled, indicating Takada: “This is Deputy Station Manager Takada, also our current nominal Kanto Stage Station Manager, personally requested to join. Hiroshi Nohara. Deputy Station Manager Takada values this reform highly, specially had Hiroshi accompany me.”
They nodded hurriedly, gazes on Hiroshi Nohara.
This younger-than-expected director showed no arrogance, calm eyes like deep pool, not to be underestimated.
Hiroshi Nohara stepped forward, bowing again, tone perfectly respectful: “Mr. Yamada, Mr. Fujishita, Mr. Kimura, Mr. Kobayashi, Mr. Saito, I’m Hiroshi Nohara. Thank you for cooperating on reform. If I do anything wrong, please advise, seniors.”
His voice moderate but clear to all, no youthful impetuosity, instead old-school steadiness—easing resistance in Fujishita and Kobayashi.
Yamada looked at Hiroshi Nohara, reminded of young Kiyoto Suzuki—same steadiness, politeness, daring. He helped Hiroshi up, tone sincere: “Mr. Nohara too polite. We’ve seen your talent; honor to work with you. This way, meeting room ready, Matsui Director and others waiting.”
Hiroshi Nohara nodded, following Asumi.
Passing display, his gaze lingered one second on An Shizhi old poster, then to Yamada: “Mr. Yamada, how long has this poster been up?”
Yamada stunned, then wry smile: “Posted for last rebroadcast, never changed—no new programs, no time for posters.”
Hiroshi Nohara just nodded lightly, gaze to office interior—corridor quiet, only occasional printer hum; wall Kanto Scenery Painting crew photo yellowed, but young Asumi and Kiyoto Suzuki center, beaming.
He knew reform wouldn’t be easy—Matsui’s stubbornness, veterans’ resistance, City Stage competition, budget shortages… But seeing these still striving for Kanto Stage, and wall photos of past glory, he felt it worthwhile.
As Kiyoto Suzuki said, Kanto Stage has audience emotion, veteran loyalty—with right direction, it can revive.
His task: find that direction, refill old building with camera whirs, directors’ program discussion laughter, become again the station showing “stories around us” to Kanto viewers.
Meeting room door ahead, Yuichi Matsui’s voice inside, stubborn yet expectant.
He looked up, entered with Yamada, Asumi and Takada following.
Sunlight through corridor windows fell on them, stretching shadows long, like curtain rising on this inevitably tough reform.
PS: First day back from holiday, hope everyone has a great workday mood~
