Chapter 243: 《taste Of Neon》! A Huge Success! Everyone’s Excitement!
Kanto Stage’s screening room was a size smaller than Tokyo TV’s, with walls painted dark gray and sound-absorbing cotton covering every inch, even the air carrying a faint scent of film.
The projection curtain straight ahead glowed with cold white light, below it two rows of black folding chairs, and the front row specially placed with three genuine leather sofas—specially retrieved by Managing Director Asumi from Kanto Stage’s warehouse, saying “to let Mr. Suzuki and these veteran leaders sit comfortably.”
Hiroshi Nohara arrived at the screening room ten minutes early, holding the film copy of the first episode of Taste of Neon in his arms, followed by Ichiro Hashimoto and Sakurako Honda.
Ichiro Hashimoto clutched the editing script in his arms, his fingers still restlessly rubbing the pages, clearly a bit nervous.
Sakurako Honda gripped her notebook, pen tip hovering over the paper, ready to record feedback at any moment.
“Hiroshi-kun, really not checking it one more time?” Ichiro Hashimoto asked softly. “It felt fine in the editing room earlier, but now that we’re in the screening room, I keep worrying something wasn’t edited right.”
Hiroshi patted his shoulder, his tone still steady: “Relax, we’ve checked everything that needed checking. Rhythm, music, subtitles—all good. The rest depends on everyone’s feelings—after all, documentaries capture hearts, not measured by technical specs.”
Just as he finished speaking, the screening room door was pushed open, and Asumi and Kiyoto Suzuki walked in.
Kiyoto Suzuki wore a dark gray Zhongshan suit, hair combed impeccably, holding a black wooden cane, his steps much steadier than last time they met.
Following them were several veteran executives from Kanto Stage: Deputy Director of Production Ryuji Yamada, Director of Advertising Department Ken Fujishita, Director of Human Resources Department Hiroshi Kimura, and Director of Technical Department Shigeru Saito.
“Hiroshi-kun, sorry to keep you waiting.” Kiyoto Suzuki smiled as he spoke, his tone carrying an elder’s gentleness. “Haven’t been feeling well lately, ran a few minutes late—don’t mind.”
“Mr. Suzuki, you’re too polite. We just arrived too.” Hiroshi quickly stepped aside, pointing to the front row sofas. “Please sit here, best view.”
Everyone took their seats one after another. Ken Fujishita had just sat down when he pulled half a tuna sandwich from his suit pocket and secretly popped a bite into his mouth—his morning ad talks with “Asakusa-ya” had fallen through, and he hadn’t even had breakfast.
Hiroshi Kimura pushed up his round-rimmed glasses, took out a small notebook from his briefcase, pen already in hand, clearly prepared to take serious notes.
Shigeru Saito remained silent as ever, sitting in the farthest corner, clutching his pager, eyes on the projection curtain, expressionless.
Once everyone was seated, Asumi stood up, cleared his throat: “Everyone, we asked you here today to watch the rough cut of the first episode of 《Taste of Neon》 together. This film was led by Hiroshi-kun, shot with Mr. Matsui, Honda-chan, and others, took a week, focusing on Mr. Masayasu Nomizu from Chiba Fish Market—feel free to share your thoughts after watching, no need to hold back.”
Before he finished, Ryuji Yamada lightly coughed, his tone hesitant: “Managing Director Asumi, not to pour cold water, but Kanto Stage has done similar short films before, like last year’s 《Chiba Fishing Port Diary》, took two months, ended with 1.2% ratings, advertisers complained ‘no appeal.’ Documentaries in our Japanese film and television industry have never ranked high—you know, Japanese audiences only go for animated films, TV dramas; movies need big stars to carry, variety shows can’t even make the table, let alone documentaries.”
Ken Fujishita nodded too, still chewing his sandwich, mumbling unclearly: “Exactly! Last time I talked ads with Marui Soy Sauce’s person in charge, they straight-up said ‘unless you get Shunsuke Kamiki for an idol drama, no funding.’ Documentary? They didn’t even want to hear it, said ‘filming old fishermen hauling nets is less buzzy than stars eating sashimi.'”
Hiroshi Kimura pushed up his glasses, adding: “And our station’s young employees aren’t optimistic either. Yesterday in Production Department, I heard some directors saying ‘documentaries are just filming stuff no one watches, better do variety for easy bonuses’—young people nowadays all want shortcuts, no one willing to settle in for slow content.”
Kiyoto Suzuki said nothing, just looked at Hiroshi with expectation in his eyes: “Hiroshi-kun, I know documentaries are tough, but I trust your eye. Back when you did 《An Shizhi》, everyone said late-night slot couldn’t survive, but you made it. Today, I’m eager to see if this film can surprise us again.”
Hiroshi nodded, turned to the projectionist: “You can start.”
The projector clicked on, the light on the curtain suddenly dimmed, followed by waves crashing—not studio effects, but on-site audio Ichiro Hashimoto specially recorded at Chiba Pier, carrying salty sea breeze and distant fishing boat horns.
The image slowly brightened, Chiba Fish Market in morning mist gradually appearing on the curtain.
The wooden stall gleamed with aged luster, fishing boat deck lights scattered like stars on the sea, Masayasu Nomizu in deep blue fishing trousers bending to untie the mooring rope.
The lens didn’t go straight to his face, but first to his hands—hands covered in calluses, thick finger joints, yet deft, untying the knot in one smooth motion.
“This shot… interesting.” Ryuji Yamada instinctively sat up straight, muttering softly. “Usually start with faces for characters, but Hiroshi-kun goes for hands first—those hands tell a story, more flavor than straight face shots.”
Ken Fujishita forgot his sandwich, eyes fixed on the curtain: “Look at that morning mist texture, sea water colors, shot like a painting. Our station’s 《Chiba Fishing Port Diary》 came out gray and murky like VHS tape, nowhere near this clear.”
Hiroshi Kimura jotted in his small notebook: “Cinematic language nuanced, detail-focused, unlike traditional documentaries’ ‘play-by-play recording.'”
The image advanced, Masayasu Nomizu steering his fishing boat out to sea, the net unfurling in the air, when music suddenly swelled—a piano piece, not famous, old stock Hiroshi dug from Kanto Stage’s music library, melody light, undulating like waves.
As the net hit the water, piano slowed to a fade, leaving only waves and Masayasu Nomizu’s shouts.
“Great music choice!” Kiyoto Suzuki suddenly spoke, tone surprised. “Thought you’d go traditional shamisen, but piano—doesn’t steal scenes, builds atmosphere, more modern than shamisen, highlights the sea’s gentleness. Hiroshi-kun, custom-made score? Such efficiency?”
Hiroshi shook his head with a smile: “Not custom, old stock from Kanto Stage music library. Spent two hours yesterday digging, found this piano piece, matched the waves perfectly, so had Mr. Hashimoto edit it in.”
“Digging old stock?” Ryuji Yamada paused, then sighed. “Our station’s music library has nearly twenty years of tapes, usually ignored—didn’t expect Hiroshi-kun to find such a fit. Others would’ve bought external copyright, costly and time-consuming; you’re decisive.”
Ken Fujishita nodded: “Exactly! Last time for 《Kanto Gourmet Journey》, half a month just on music, five million yen on copyright, film flopped, money down the drain. Hiroshi-kun’s efficiency beats us old bones.”
Kiyoto Suzuki smiled at his old subordinates: “Now you see why I trust Hiroshi-kun to lead? He doesn’t just rely on tech, but ‘heart’—knows how to make the best with least resources, what audiences want. You lot cling to ‘rules,’ think ‘no big bucks, no good stuff,’ forgetting content’s essence.”
Ryuji Yamada scratched his head sheepishly: “Mr. Suzuki’s right, we do need to shake old views. Station folks fear responsibility, discuss everything in meetings for half a month, miss chances. Hiroshi-kun thinks and acts, one week great footage—way better than us.”
Hiroshi Kimura sighed: “Exactly! Young director wanted ‘old street crafts’ short once, reported up, departments debated a month, rejected for ‘high risk.’ Kanto Stage lacks Hiroshi-kun types—daring young go-getters. No wonder he’s so accomplished young; we’d be clock-punching at forty.”
As they spoke, the curtain reached the tuna auction segment.
Dozens of fish shop bosses crowded the wooden stall, auctioneer’s bids rising and falling, Masayasu Nomizu at the front, eyes locked on the tuna on stage.
Lens switched between auctioneer, bosses, and Masayasu Nomizu—no excess narration, just on-site audio and expressions ramping tension.
“Two hundred thousand!” Masayasu Nomizu suddenly raised his paddle, voice booming.
Crowd hushed instantly, auctioneer banged gavel: “Two hundred thousand once! Twice! Sold!”
Masayasu Nomizu smiled, strode to the stall, fingers gently pressing the tuna—close-up, fish meat slightly rebounding under pressure, textures clear.
Cut to Masayasu Nomizu’s eyes, wrinkled but bright, like reflecting morning light.
“Good!”
Kiyoto Suzuki couldn’t help clapping. “This segment’s brilliant! No dialogue, yet captures Mr. Nomizu’s cherishing of tuna, persistence in fishery—more vivid than some TV character builds!”
Ryuji Yamada praised too: “Always thought documentaries just ‘record process,’ didn’t know characters could be shot like this. Mr. Nomizu pressing tuna, his gaze—more real than acted. This is what humanistic documentaries should be!”
Ken Fujishita patted his beer belly, excited: “Just thought, clip this auction into trailer, sure to draw viewers! Ordinary folks rarely see tuna auctions—this tension beats idol drama melodrama!”
Hiroshi Kimura wrote furiously in his notebook: “Character portrayal multidimensional, scenes tense, high viral potential—suggest City Promotion Department highlight this footage.”
Shigeru Saito finally spoke, voice low but affirmative: “Lens stability excellent, lighting handled well. Auction area’s backlighting no overexposure, outlines figures—far better than station’s prior news.”
Hiroshi smiled and nodded: “Thanks to Mr. Saito. Filming day, auction light too dim; Mr. Saito adjusted camera aperture, added reflector board for this effect.”
Shigeru Saito’s mouth twitched slightly at that, said no more, but indifference in his eyes softened to warmth of recognition.
Image advanced to Masayasu Nomizu slicing sashimi at the fish shop. Blade through tuna sounded crisp, “swish swish” with piano harmoniously.
Paper-thin sashimi slices fell on bamboo mat, fresh pink sheen, slow-motion lens showing fish meat textures clearly.
“Hiss—” Ken Fujishita inhaled sharply. “This sashimi’s too tempting! Skipped breakfast, now craving a bowl!”
Ryuji Yamada laughed: “Used to think food shots ‘too direct seem tacky,’ so blurred them. Hiroshi-kun goes close-up, slow-mo—makes it feel ‘fresh.’ That’s how gourmet should look!”
Kiyoto Suzuki nodded, gratified: “Japanese always say ‘restraint,’ forget ‘real’ moves most. Mr. Nomizu’s focus slicing sashimi, diners’ satisfaction eating it—these real expressions warmer than contrived ‘elegance.’ Hiroshi-kun, your film truly gets ‘eating,’ and ‘people.'”
Finally, image on Masayasu Nomizu’s back at the wharf, sunset stretching his shadow long.
He gazed at distant fishing boats, softly: “The sea gives what it gives, we eat that—no greed.”
No background music, just waves and wind—powerful.
Projector clicked off, curtain relit, room quiet seconds, then burst into lively discussion.
“Too good! This isn’t documentary, more gripping than some unit dramas!”
Ken Fujishita first: “Counted three memorable spots: Mr. Nomizu’s hauling gaze, auction tension, sashimi close-up—for promo, it’ll explode!”
Ryuji Yamada nodded: “Agree with Mr. Fujishita. Especially character—Mr. Nomizu fleshed out, stubborn old fisherman yet passionate about fishery, beats TV flat characters. Hiroshi-kun, how’d you think to shoot characters like this?”
Hiroshi smiled: “Nothing special, just chatted lots with Mr. Nomizu. Pre-shoot, three hours talking his childhood sea trips with father, why stick to wooden boats, his tuna insights—these stories matter more than techniques.”
Hiroshi Kimura pushed glasses, admiring: “That’s your strength. We always thought ‘what to shoot,’ forgot ‘why.’ You get people first, so footage warm. Watching, recalled my grandfather—fisherman too, always said ‘sea doesn’t lie,’ just like Mr. Nomizu.”
Shigeru Saito added: “Technically flawless. HD camera quality sharp, audio clean—no noise, sea wind natural, no dialogue interference. Pro-er than any prior station film.”
Kiyoto Suzuki stood, went to Hiroshi, patted shoulder: “Hiroshi-kun, didn’t misjudge you. This saves Kanto Stage, changes Japanese views on documentaries—folks thought ‘no appeal’ ’cause no warm content. You did it, better than us old bones.”
Asumi smiled: “Just called Director Takada—he says if all good, schedule prime time slot next week. Worried City Stage snatched it, but now 《Taste of Neon》 can compete with their 《Tokyo Suburbs Visit》!”
“Prime time?”
Ken Fujishita’s eyes lit: “Perfect! Prime time big audience, break 5% ratings, advertisers flock! I’ll contact Marui Soy Sauce person now, show footage, maybe salvage collapsed ad!”
Ryuji Yamada: “I’ll tell Production young ones learn from Hiroshi-kun—no lazy variety, settle for content to make good stuff.”
Hiroshi Kimura picked up notebook: “I’ll compile viewer feedback report, highlight character and scene tension for City Promotion reference. Also contact Chiba Prefectural Office, get them promo on local TV/papers—film boosts their tourism.”
Shigeru Saito, seeing lively crowd, rare smile. To Hiroshi softly: “Next shoot, need tech support, find me anytime.”
Hiroshi nodded: “Thanks Mr. Saito. Next ‘Street Warmth,’ might need old street night shots—trouble you for lighting.”
“No problem.” Shigeru Saito agreed, returned to seat.
Screening room buzzed with enthusiasm, everyone expectant and energized—Kanto Stage used to be dead, meetings finger-pointing or rote, never united like now for one film.
Hiroshi eyed scene, suddenly felt “reform” never one person’s job.
Kiyoto Suzuki’s trust, Asumi’s support, Ryuji Yamada, Ken Fujishita, Hiroshi Kimura, Shigeru Saito’s cooperation, plus frontline like Yuichi Matsui, Sakurako Honda’s efforts—made this film possible.
Like in 《Taste of Neon》, fine sashimi needs fishermen catching, auctioneer fair pricing, chef careful prep, diners savoring—miss any link, no complete story.
Kiyoto Suzuki watched bustle, to Hiroshi: “Hiroshi-kun, know? Kanto Stage’s glory days were like this—united for films, no personal gripes. Later slumping performance scattered hearts. Now you brought back the drive—more vital than any score.”
Hiroshi nodded, firm: “Mr. Suzuki, rest assured—we’ll keep pushing, nail ‘Street Warmth’ and ‘Home Flavors,’ make 《Taste of Neon》 Kanto Stage’s signature, and Japanese humanistic documentary staple.”
Sunset through screening room windows, gilded curtain’s Masayasu Nomizu back shadow. Corridor outside, Production young ones’ laughter—they heard film great, coming to ask Hiroshi shooting tips.
Kanto Stage office building hadn’t buzzed like this in ages.
Meanwhile at Tokyo City Television, Kazuo Takahashi held City Stage intel report, face grim.
Report: “Kanto Stage 《Taste of Neon》 rough cut done, internal feedback excellent, prime time next week, Tokyo TV coordinating slot support.”
Fingers gripped report tighter, crumpling paper. Thought Hiroshi Nohara’s doc would late-night, no threat to 《Tokyo Suburbs Visit》—underestimated him.
“Need to adjust plans early.” Kazuo Takahashi muttered, picked desk phone, dialed: “Get Section Chief Yamada and Director Sato to my office now—emergency discussion.”
Affirmative from other end, hung up, eyes to window.
Tokyo sunset sinking, city in cold glow.
He knew prime time battle starting, Hiroshi Nohara and 《Taste of Neon》 City Stage’s toughest rival.
……
On road back to Tokyo TV from Kanto Stage, Asumi clutched Taste of Neon screening feedback form, edges wrinkled.
He glanced at eyes-closed Hiroshi Nohara beside: “Hiroshi-kun, not nervous at all? Soon report to Director Takada—if he thinks film misses mark, prime slot gone.”
Hiroshi slowly opened eyes, steady: “Nervous useless. Film quality speaks; Mr. Takada gets content, won’t judge by theme alone, ignores core. Plus Suzuki-san’s feedback backing—no fear.”
Car entered Tokyo TV HQ parking lot, sunset hitting rooftop “Tokyo Television Station” sign, warm gold.
Just into Production Bureau building, Director Takada Toshihide’s secretary stopped them: “Mr. Nohara, Managing Director Asumi, Director Takada waits in big meeting room—Station Manager Sakata and former President Shimazu Yoshihiro there too.”
Asumi paused, glanced at Hiroshi—Shimazu focused on mayor election post-resignation, rare visit; clearly for 《Taste of Neon》.
Hiroshi calmly patted his arm, signaling calm, followed secretary to big meeting room.
Door open, Nobuhiko Sakata at head, holding file; Yoshihiro Shimazu left, dark suit, hair impeccable, eyes politician-sharp.
Toshihide Takada right side, empty coffee cup before—waited awhile.
“Hiroshi-kun, Asumi, you’re here.” Nobuhiko Sakata first, mild: “Sit. Just heard from Takada, great screening at Kanto Stage?”
Seated, Asumi handed feedback: “Station Manager Sakata, see—Kanto Stage’s Mr. Suzuki, Mr. Yamada highly praise character and cinematic language.”
Yoshihiro Shimazu took, skimmed, looked to Hiroshi: “Heard you shot first episode in one week? Just Kanto Stage old gear and music library?”
“Yes.”
Hiroshi nodded: “Kanto Stage gear old but Mr. Saito tuned perfect; library old but worldly vibe fits fish market—no need chase ‘new,’ waste time/budget.”
Toshihide Takada finally: scrutinizing tone: “Fair, but doc market real. Past five years Japanese food docs max 3.5% ratings—why think yours breaks it?”
Hiroshi to Nobuhiko Sakata: “Station Manager Sakata, recall pre-《Late-night Diner》, all said ‘no big star no spectacle, won’t fly’? It became evergreen, pulled Nissin Ramen long sponsor.”
Paused, continued: “Audiences don’t hate docs, hate ‘play-by-play.’ My 《Taste of Neon》 focuses not ‘food’ but ‘people’—Mr. Nomizu’s fishery persistence, diners’ old flavor nostalgia—moves viewers. Like 《Late-night Diner》 via ‘stories,’ ours via ‘human relations’—draws same.”
Nobuhiko Sakata smiled: “Love your conviction. But talk cheap—brought film? We watch to judge.”
Hiroshi stood quick, pulled film copy from briefcase: “Brought it—project now.”
Room lights off, curtain lit, waves first, then misty Chiba Fish Market—Masayasu Nomizu’s rope hands, net arc, tuna bids flowed on curtain.
Toshihide Takada leaned back, arms crossed, scrutinizing.
But at Masayasu Nomizu hauling gaze, sat straight, fingers tapping desk.
Yoshihiro Shimazu notebook out, pen hovering, noting “lens angle,” “music choice” details.
At slow-mo Masayasu Nomizu sashimi: Toshihide Takada: “This lighting good—tuna texture clear, not greasy. Who lit?”
“Kanto Stage’s Mr. Shigeru Saito.” Hiroshi: “Adjusted aperture, added reflector.”
Toshihide Takada nodded, watched on. At end, Masayasu Nomizu’s “sea gives what it gives… no greed,” room quiet seconds, Nobuhiko Sakata first clapped: “Great! Warm, way better than expected!”
Yoshihiro Shimazu closed notebook, praising: “Thought docs dull process—didn’t expect such lively characters. Mr. Nomizu stubborn, steadfast, sea-awe—stereoscopic-er than some TV leads!”
Toshihide Takada dropped scrutiny, softer: “Admit underestimated you. Style unique—not Japanese docs’ ‘wide + narration’; details and on-site audio more immersive. Deliberate study?”
“Yes.” Hiroshi: “Studied recent domestic/international docs—audiences crave ‘immersion.’ Cut narration, more on-site and close-ups—viewers feel at market, watching Mr. Nomizu fish/slice. ‘You-are-there’ beats narration.”
Hiroshi suddenly thought—if they knew techniques from past life’s 21st-century docs, what reaction?
Past-life docs shed “preachy” frames, “small reveals big,” individual stories mirror group emotions, slow-mo/micro lenses for impact.
1991 Japanese docs stuck at “event recording”—grand historical/cultural narratives or serious social topics; rare ordinary life details, let alone nuanced cinematic language.
Yoshihiro Shimazu, oblivious: excited: “Sure to win awards! Mr. Nomizu portrayal, ‘sea-to-table’ narrative logic—stands out humanistic docs! Chiba seafood could spark Tokyo Bay sashimi boom—election, leverage ‘boost local culture/tourism’ votes!”
Nobuhiko Sakata smiled: “Beyond awards, advertisers interested. Tuna auction, Nomizu shop sashimi—product placement natural: market sponsors, knife brands—smoother than variety, merchants fund.”
Toshihide Takada nodded: “Worried no sponsors—overthought. Tomorrow Advertising contacts Chiba fishery assoc for long-term—funds film, promotes local seafood, win-win.”
Hiroshi timely: “Mr. Takada, one thing—Chiba Prefectural Office’s Motohiro Ishigami wants sample film early for culture/tourism promo—okay?”
“Of course!”
Toshihide Takada: “Great—pre-heats film, good gov ties. Editing make extra copy, send tomorrow.”
Then Yoshihiro Shimazu paused, idea: to Hiroshi: “Hiroshi-kun, idea. Tokyo TV shows end with my ‘National Dialogue’ on social topics. Add similar to 《Taste of Neon》 end? Chat Mr. Nomizu fishery inheritance, or viewers on ‘local food meaning’—boosts interaction, my exposure for election.”
Hiroshi schemed instantly, feigned thought seconds, smiled: “Former President Shimazu, great idea. Two segments: one, you at Nomizu shop eat sashimi with Mr. Nomizu, chat childhood father sea trips, theme ‘inheritance’; two, at Chiba Pier, talk viewers ‘sea’s gifts,’ call attention local fishery—seamless, echoes content, shows your livelihood care.”
Yoshihiro Shimazu eyes lit, clapped: “Perfect design! Fits tone, conveys politics—Hiroshi-kun, so thorough!”
Nobuhiko Sakata smiled: “Hiroshi-kun gets content and real needs—cultural value, social value, helps Shimazu votes—triple win.”
Toshihide Takada inwardly sighed—Hiroshi Nohara talented, adaptable, balances core with demands.
Previously worried too stubborn, workplace-clueless—overthought.
Yoshihiro Shimazu thrilled, stood to Hiroshi, patted shoulder: “Hiroshi-kun, need help, say. Election promo or resources—I got you. You’re my friend!”
Hiroshi stood quick: “Former President Shimazu too kind—helping you honors me.”
Nobuhiko Sakata checked time: “Time’s up, head out. Hiroshi-kun, tomorrow Editing add Shimazu segments, hit prime next week. Takada, contact City Promotion’s Tadashi Hattori for subway/paper trailer promo—spread 《Taste of Neon》.”
“Yes!” Toshihide Takada and Hiroshi in unison.
Out meeting room, Yoshihiro Shimazu lagged with Hiroshi, soft: “Hiroshi-kun, heard Mikami Tanaka eyeing you? Trouble, call—I won’t let him suppress local culture!”
Hiroshi warmed, nodded: “Thanks Former President Shimazu’s concern—I’ll watch. Unsolvable, I’ll call.”
Shimazu gone, Asumi neared, admiring: “Hiroshi-kun, segments brilliant! Met Shimazu needs, kept film intact—I couldn’t think so complete.”
Hiroshi smiled: “Nothing—thought his angle. Needs exposure, voter emotional ties; film’s ‘inheritance’ ‘local culture’ fits campaign—combine, scheme forms.”
At elevator, Toshihide Takada caught up: “Hiroshi-kun, wait. Called Advertising—Marui Soy Sauce heard film good, wants meet tomorrow on sponsorship—free?”
“Free.” Hiroshi: “Ten AM, station reception room.”
Toshihide Takada nodded, gratified: “Good, secretary coordinates. Hiroshi-kun, keep it up—Tokyo TV future on you young ones.”
Elevator doors open, Hiroshi and Asumi in. Rising numbers, Asumi: “Increasingly feel Kanto Stage reform right direction, you leading—perfect. Without you, maybe abandoned.”
Hiroshi eyed elevator reflection, calm: “Not my credit alone. All want do right—Mr. Suzuki’s trust, Mr. Saito’s tech, Mr. Matsui’s shoots, your and Mr. Takada’s support—miss anyone, fails.”
Elevator hit first floor, dusk fallen, Tokyo TV building lights on—like lighthouse in night.
