Chapter 28: Film Critic Kato
In Tokyo, this massive and precise city machine, when a gear begins to turn in a completely new and irrational way, there will always be some more sensitive nerve endings that first sense that subtle vibration.
Kato Shin was just such a nerve ending.
His office was on the seventh floor of the Nitto News building, in a spot by the window.
Outside the window was a corner of Shinjuku Gyoen, with different scenery in every season, a rare luxury in this steel forest.
However, Kato’s gaze rarely fell on that patch of green.
His world was confined to a small desk, built from text, ink, and paper.
He was a film critic.
His job was to use the blade of words to dissect movies and television dramas, clearly presenting their flesh, bones, light and shadow, and sounds to the readers.
He could depict a mediocre work as splendid and captivating; or tear apart a carefully crafted one, leaving it worthless. The knack for this balance was his craft, the foundation of his standing in this city.
That afternoon, someone from Tokyo Television Station delivered a rather hefty document bag, along with an equally hefty envelope stamped with a bank logo.
The task was very clear.
For their key proposal airing next Monday at 10 p.m.—the animation Oni-bō Samurai—write a substantial film review capable of guiding public opinion.
Kato brewed a cup of black tea, the amber tea soup rippling with a warm glow in the bone china cup.
He leisurely opened the document bag, his professional numbness leaving him with no real interest in the finely printed promotional brochures and cast introduction inside.
Oni-bō Samurai.
He only glanced at the story outline before mentally rating it: cliché.
A wrongfully killed samurai turns into a vengeful ghost, a powerful onmyoji teams up with a compassionate monk to exorcise demons, only to uncover a tragic tale of love and hatred behind it. This kind of story was like canned goods off a production line—however fancy the packaging, the taste inside was always the same.
But he didn’t mind. Clichés sometimes meant safety, easier acceptance by the masses.
Besides, the writing fee from Tokyo Television Station was generous enough to let him cloak this cliché in a gorgeous garment of “profound” and “sentiment.”
He had even drafted the opening in his mind: “…In this icy cold urban jungle, have we long forgotten that tragic epic of loyalty, injustice, and redemption from the classical era…”
Kato picked up his teacup, ready to moisten his throat, then dash off this routine piece in one go.
But just then, the conversation of two new interns in the outer office drifted into his somewhat lazy thoughts like two untimely fallen leaves.
“Hey, Takahashi, did you hear? That An Shizhi, last night’s ratings almost hit 3%!”
“I heard! It’s insane! My girlfriend was so scared she didn’t sleep all night, and this morning she told me she’d never dare use the copier alone during overtime again. She said that animation is toxic!”
“Exactly! I watched it last night too, that family precept episode gave me chills. You know, the proposal and original concept for this animation is by Hiroshi Nohara, the teacher who drew Yu Yu Hakusho! What a genius!”
“Really? The author of Yu Yu Hakusho? No wonder! I’m following that manga too, the fight scenes are super cool! Who knew he was this good at ghost stories!”
An Shizhi?
Hiroshi Nohara?
A Tokyo Television Station program?
Kato’s eyebrows furrowed imperceptibly.
He had always kept his distance from those fight-filled manga in Shonen Jump.
To him, they were too straightforward, lacking the lingering aftertaste worth savoring, not true “works.”
As for that An Shizhi, he had heard of it too—a low-budget production in Tokyo Television Station’s late-night slot, rough and cheap, something a self-proclaimed tastemaker “cultural” person like him would never touch.
The two interns were still chattering excitedly, full of the unworldly enthusiasm unique to young people. Kato shook his head, swallowing the minor noise along with his black tea.
This world never lacked cheap revelry.
He scoffed at the young people’s praise.
……
As night deepened, Kato ended a dull social obligation, returned home to Suginami Ward with a body full of alcohol.
His wife and son were asleep; the living room had only a dim yellow wall lamp, stretching his shadow thin and long, exuding the fatigue and loneliness unique to a middle-aged man.
He changed out of his suit-like armor, poured himself a glass of ice water, sat on the sofa, ready to enjoy a rare moment of complete tranquility belonging only to himself.
His gaze inadvertently fell on the tea table.
There lay an open Shonen Jump weekly, his middle school son’s favorite read.
He picked up the magazine; on the rough paper were sharply lined fight scenes—a boy in a white martial arts uniform pushing a ball of blue energy wave at a hideous demon.
Yu Yu Hakusho.
Kato’s mind suddenly flashed back to the interns’ conversation that afternoon.
He recalled that animation called An Shizhi, and the young man named Hiroshi Nohara they called a “genius.”
He also thought of the thick envelope from Tokyo Television Station.
A strange mix of professional ethics and a touch of curiosity quietly stirred in his heart.
Perhaps… he should check out this late-night program?
He felt inclined to do so.
After all, taking such a large sum from Tokyo Television Station and only writing a puff piece for Oni-bō Samurai seemed unjustifiable.
If he could casually praise another of their programs too, even just mention it, it would be a favor in passing.
It would make future encounters in this circle smoother.
Moreover, a program whose ratings skyrocketed overnight must have something exceptional. As a professional critic, exploring what that “exceptional” was part of the job.
So, Kato went to the television, turned it on.
The clock hands were quietly sliding toward midnight.
He held no expectations.
To him, this was more like post-dinner amusement, a superior scrutiny of self-important young people and blindly trend-following masses.
Of course, most crucially… a gesture of goodwill to his biggest benefactor, Tokyo Television Station!
……
12:20 a.m.
When the eerie nursery rhyme and drumbeats started, Kato was leaning back on the sofa, posture relaxed.
When the masked man appeared on the screen, he even let out a soft scoff.
“Pretentious hocus-pocus.”
That was his first verdict.
Then, the fourth episode’s story began.
An Shizhi: Paper
A female teacher working overtime late at night, an old printer.
Kato’s expression didn’t change. This scene setup was too ordinary, too bland to spark any interest in a connoisseur like him.
When eerie black lines appeared on the printed paper, he just calmly thought: printer malfunction, a hackneyed horror film trope.
When the female teacher first lifted the lid and saw that pale face, he didn’t even raise an eyebrow.
“Hallucination, another hallucination. Next, she’ll lift it again, find nothing, breathe a sigh of relief, and then the real terror hits.”
Like a chess player who saw through every trick, he coldly observed the opponent’s clumsy layout, even feeling a twinge of boredom.
Sure enough, everything went as he predicted.
The female teacher lifted the lid a second time; the glass plate was empty.
She breathed a sigh of relief, gave a self-mocking smile.
Kato was about to shift to a more comfortable position, thinking the story was over—next would be the teacher wearily going home or some irrelevant follow-up.
However, it was this instant.
Just as the female teacher raised her hand to rub her eyes, as if nothing had happened, lulling everyone into lowered guard, in that moment the screen went dark.
A ghost face.
A rotting, twisted ghost face with black pus oozing from its eyes burst onto the screen without warning, in a violently tearing posture—directly and abruptly right in front of him!
“Zzzzap—”
That face was so close, so clear, as if carrying a great terror that pierced through the screen and slammed into Kato’s retinas!
“Ugh!”
Kato’s body jerked back, slamming heavily into the sofa backrest; the water cup flew from his hand, landing on the carpet with a thud.
His heart felt gripped by an icy cold hand, then suddenly released, pounding wildly, nearly jumping out of his throat.
His mind went blank.
It took a full ten seconds before he panted heavily, recovering from that extreme, physiological fright.
He stared at the darkened screen and the cold “The End” on it, his eyes filled with unprecedented shock… and bewilderment.
What was this?
It wasn’t any horror he knew.
It ignored logic, ignored buildup—like a madman swinging a bloodstained knife into your eyes at your most relaxed, undefended moment.
Simple, crude, unreasonable.
Yet… terrifyingly effective.
Kato slowly sat up straight; he felt his back was soaked in chill.
He began to reflect.
No longer a passive viewer, he replayed those short three minutes in his mind from a professional critic’s perspective.
Then, he discovered something even more frightening.
It wasn’t that sudden ghost face at the end.
It was the entire story’s concept.
Office, overtime, printer…
What precise capture of modern urbanites’ life state!
That female teacher was the epitome of countless corporate slaves toiling late for a living; that fickle printer that always failed at crucial moments was their greatest work nightmare?
This young man Hiroshi Nohara wasn’t telling a traditional ghost story.
He was planting a time bomb called “fear” in every familiar, everyday scene for urban white-collar workers.
From tonight on, every overtime night, as people approached that icy cold printer, they would subconsciously recall this Paper episode. They would hesitate lifting the lid; feel heart palpitations at unexplained marks on printed paper.
This fear wouldn’t vanish with the animation’s end. It would spread like a virus into daily life, becoming an inescapable psychological shadow.
“…Genius.”
Kato Shin, the man who had dissected countless works with words’ blade and long had a heart still as an ancient well, now sincerely uttered these two words.
He gazed at the deep night sky outside the window, sensing for the first time an unprecedented storm brewing quietly on this city’s cultural landscape.
And he was fortunate to be among the first to witness the eye of the storm.
He stood, went to his study, turned on the newly updated word processor.
He deleted the flashy, hollow opening he had written for Oni-bō Samurai.
Then, he typed a new title.
—An Shizhi: A gentle terror ritual offered to the modern city.
