Monday 13 January 1999 ZAGE Tower Japan.
Zaboru sighed deeply, his breath escaping like a slow release of steam, as he settled into the plush executive chair nestled inside his 50th floor office at the towering ZAGE headquarters. This particular floor, often dubbed his "Official Office," wasn't somewhere he spent much time—it was more symbolic than functional. Designed for high-profile meetings or rare diplomatic appearances, the office served as a pristine showroom of power and elegance rather than a daily workspace. Most of Zaboru's actual work took place in the more chaotic, hands-on environments on his private 51st floor workshop.
Despite its grandeur, the 50th floor was frequently occupied by someone else entirely—his sharp, loyal, and incredibly efficient secretary, Yumi Ichijou. She managed this space like a general commanding her troops, overseeing correspondence, scheduling, and the endless parade of visitors that Zaboru usually ignored. Although their offices were in different rooms, this floor had become more her domain than his. Yet today, for reasons that even he didn't quite understand, Zaboru had found himself here, plopping down heavily into the chair as if the weight of a thousand meetings suddenly pressed upon him.
"Say, Yumi-san, why does the government suddenly want to meet with me?" Zaboru asked, raising an eyebrow. There was a mix of irritation and curiosity in his voice, and even as he leaned back in his chair, his gaze sharpened. This wasn't a typical request.
Yumi chuckled lightly and replied with her usual composed tone, "Well, Boss, about that... they said there's something they want to discuss involving the ZAGE offices—either the one here in Japan or the one in the United States. They didn't give specifics in their message, but they sounded quite serious. It seems like a matter that goes beyond just polite formalities."
Zaboru exhaled slowly and rubbed his temple. "What do they even want this time…? It's always vague when the government comes knocking. Alright then, Yumi-san, let's not waste time. Let the representative come up here. Better to hear it directly."
Yumi gave a crisp nod and smiled. "Right away, Boss," she said professionally. Without hesitation, she turned on her heel and briskly walked out of the room, her heels clicking rhythmically against the polished marble floor. She moved with quiet purpose, heading down the corridor to greet and escort the government representative to Zaboru's floor.
Roughly fifteen minutes later, Yumi returned to the 50th floor, her heels tapping steadily across the marble floor as the automatic doors slid open. She held a polite, composed expression, but her pace had a sense of urgency as she led the guest behind her—a neatly dressed man in a navy-blue government suit with a neatly trimmed goatee and silver-rimmed glasses.
The man stepped forward confidently, offering a wide, practiced smile the moment he entered. "Zaboru-san," he greeted with enthusiasm, extending his hand.
Zaboru stood up smoothly from his chair, returning the handshake with his usual composed demeanor. As their hands clasped briefly, Zaboru took a moment to assess the man—he didn't recognize him. The man had a slight edge of charisma in his tone, the kind that suggested he was used to talking his way into deals.
"My name is Denzo Goto," the man said clearly. "I'm the assistant to Kenji Adachihara from the Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science and Technology."
Zaboru gave a polite nod. He knew of Kenji—his name carried weight in the political and educational sectors—but this Goto fellow was unfamiliar. Still, his tone remained diplomatic. "Nice to meet you, Goto-san."
Denzo chuckled in a friendly manner and gave a relaxed wave of his hand. "Please, just call me Denzo. Hahaha! No need to be so formal, right? I feel like we should be on familiar terms if we're going to work together."
Zaboru sighed quietly, inwardly noting the overly casual energy, but he didn't let his expression betray anything. His face remained calm, unreadable. 'So this guy wants to play the buddy-buddy card from the start, huh?' he thought.
Still, he responded with a professional smile. "Fine enough, Denzo-san."
Then both of them sat down across from each other, the mood shifting slightly from formality to something more serious. Denzo wasted no time and got straight to the point, his expression neutral but his words firm.
"Zaboru-san, do you realize you're causing us trouble again?" he asked, folding his hands in front of him.
Zaboru frowned, clearly caught off guard. "Huh? What are you talking about? What problem?" he asked, leaning slightly forward in his chair, genuinely confused by the sudden accusation.
Denzo nodded slowly and began to explain. "Well… first of all, in the past couple of years, we've seen a steady rise in high school graduates who are choosing not to pursue higher education. And when asked why, many of them say the same thing—they were inspired by your story. By how you built ZAGE right after high school, how you became a global figure in tech and gaming. For them, your success story makes college feel unnecessary."
Zaboru blinked in disbelief. Sure, he had heard about this trend in passing—his old high school principal had mentioned something similar during his visit last year—but he hadn't realized the scale had grown this significantly. This wasn't just a local concern. It had become a nationwide pattern.
He let out a small sigh and leaned back in his chair. "Well… I really don't know what to say to that."
Denzo chuckled, brushing off the tension with a laugh. "Haha, it's okay. We're already working on managing it from our side. Long-term campaigns, education outreach, public awareness—things like that. It's not your fault at all. I just wanted to bring it to your attention."
He nodded in a way that felt overly performative, like he was reading from a script of how to act "diplomatic." Meanwhile, Zaboru sighed inwardly and kept his face composed.
'So they tell me there's a problem… and then immediately say, "Don't worry, I already fixed it for you." He's trying to come off as helpful just to score points. I see what this is,' Zaboru thought.
He had grown enough to recognize these kinds of political moves when he saw them. It wasn't new anymore. It was just part of the game.
Denzo then continued, his voice shifting into a more enthusiastic and animated tone as he leaned in slightly. "Well, that issue with students skipping college isn't the main reason we requested this meeting. The real purpose is something we believe you'll find both exciting and beneficial. We're here to present you with a unique opportunity that involves both your offices—ZAGE Tower here in Japan and the ZAGE Campus in the United States."
He flashed a confident smile as he spoke. "You see, the government is currently working closely with TV Tokyo on a new national media campaign. We're producing a special documentary-style television series, designed to educate, inspire, and uplift the youth of Japan—and hopefully even beyond. This series would center around giving viewers an exclusive, behind-the-scenes look at the full operations of ZAGE Tower and ZAGE Campus. These buildings have already become legendary landmarks among tech enthusiasts and dreamers alike. People are fascinated by them—how they look inside, how they function day-to-day, how they nurture talent, and how they fuel innovation."
He paused for effect before continuing with rising excitement. "By publicly showing the detailed internal layouts, architectural designs, the departments, the unique spaces, and even the way your teams collaborate across borders, we believe this will capture the imagination of countless viewers. More than that, it will build admiration and desire—people will dream of working at ZAGE. And once they realize what kind of talent works at ZAGE, they'll understand something very important: that to be part of it, they need to level up themselves. They'll see that ZAGE values intelligence, discipline, creativity, and often, a strong educational background. This could guide students back to college, aiming higher, not lower."
He chuckled lightly and added, "In a sense, we're solving the very issue we mentioned earlier—young people ditching higher education—by using your success story to reframe the value of preparation and learning. And in the process, we also elevate ZAGE's image and inspire national pride in innovation. So what do you think? It's a win-win, right?"
Zaboru leaned back in his chair, raising an eyebrow with mild amusement. "Filming the entire layout of my offices?" he asked, his tone somewhere between skeptical and intrigued.
Denzo nodded eagerly, his expression lighting up with anticipation. "Exactly! All you need to do is walk us through each floor, explaining their functions, how your teams operate, and sharing some of your own thoughts as the founder. Don't worry, Zaboru-san, we already know how naturally charismatic you are on camera. We won't hand you a script. We want you to just be yourself—use your raw charm and speak from the heart. That's part of what made ZAGE legendary in the first place. We'll film both your Japanese and U.S. headquarters and present them in a way that inspires people all over the country—and maybe even globally."
Zaboru let out a low chuckle, folding his arms as he leaned further back. "Well, the ZAGE Tower and the ZAGE Campus aren't exactly small buildings. You're talking about massive structures. Are you sure you can handle that level of detail in a show?"
Denzo laughed with ease, waving his hand as if brushing aside the concern. "We've already accounted for that. This will be a four-week special broadcast. Each episode will be about an more than hour long and will dive deep into one half of a building—so two episodes for the ZAGE Tower, and two for the ZAGE Campus. This way, we can take our time showing the architecture, the interior spaces, the working culture, your technological innovations, and the philosophy that drives ZAGE. It won't just be a tour—it'll be a full-on experience that leaves viewers dreaming of one day working there."
Zaboru thought for a moment, his mind processing the full implications of what Denzo had just proposed. 'This actually sounds like a very good idea,' he mused internally. 'Not only does it showcase what the ZAGE Tower and the ZAGE Campus look like, but it also gives people a clear picture of how we operate, how our teams collaborate, and how we've built a thriving creative ecosystem. It presents a model that could potentially shift how other Japanese companies think about their own workplaces. If done right, this could influence a cultural shift. Maybe—just maybe—it could even help inspire other companies to abandon the cursed future of becoming Black Companies.'
His thoughts wandered further, tinged with the lingering echoes of his past life. In his previous world, Zaboru had spent years trapped in a cycle of thankless, soul-crushing work, enduring the grind of endless hours in oppressive environments where management abused their power and employees were treated as disposable. He knew firsthand the mental and emotional toll that kind of culture could have. Being an eternal employee with no upward mobility and no respect was something he would never forget. Those scars were part of what had driven him to create something different in this life.
That's why now, with power in his hands and a global company under his leadership, Zaboru saw this opportunity not just as a media project—but as a statement. A way to subtly but powerfully oppose the old, toxic traditions of corporate Japan. A way to say, "This is what a company could be." His resolve solidified as he came to a quiet conclusion: he would agree to the project, not just for publicity or goodwill, but to plant a seed of change.
"Okay then, I'm agreed on this. So, when exactly will the show begin airing?" Zaboru asked, his tone now shifting into something more pragmatic, his interest piqued.
Denzo grinned, clearly pleased with Zaboru's decision. "The show is scheduled to air in March, but the shooting will begin in February. We're currently finalizing dates, but tentatively, the Japanese office shoot will take place on a Monday, and then the following Monday we'll move to the U.S. Campus. Is that schedule manageable for you?"
Zaboru nodded, though he tapped his fingers against the armrest thoughtfully. "Hmm, alright then. That sounds reasonable. But let's try to aim for early or mid-February, alright? Things get very hectic for us toward the end of the month—deadlines, reports, and internal audits. It's our usual storm period, and I'd rather not deal with filming on top of that."
Denzo nodded reassuringly. "Absolutely, don't worry. We'll finalize the schedule soon and stay in contact with your team to lock everything in well ahead of time."
They continued chatting for a little while longer, discussing minor logistics and exchanging casual remarks. There was a sense of mutual satisfaction in the air, as if both parties recognized the opportunity this collaboration could bring. Eventually, Denzo stood up, offered another firm handshake, and left the room with a confident smile.
As the automatic doors hissed closed, Zaboru leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling with a sigh and a faint smirk. The gears in his mind were already turning, considering how this project might ripple outward in ways even Denzo hadn't predicted.
"Heh, I really hope this kind of initiative can start to break down the rigid, outdated structure of Japanese work culture," Zaboru thought as he leaned back, letting the weight of the moment sink in. "If even just a few Japanese workers realize that there are healthy, supportive companies out there—places where their voices are heard and where they're respected—maybe that will be enough to start shifting the mindset. The black company way of doing things… it's toxic. It needs to be left behind."
In his heart, Zaboru knew that many people around the world still viewed Japan as a land of admirable discipline and cleanliness. And in many ways, that image wasn't wrong. But beneath the polished surface, especially in the business world, lay darker truths—ones people didn't talk about often. From his own experience in his previous life, he had seen the worst of it. In Japanese corporate hierarchies, once someone reached a certain seniority—especially if they became a manager or executive—they often began to abuse their authority. Instead of lifting others up, they saw themselves as superior, treating employees as disposable tools to be pushed to the limit.
These leaders demanded maximum effort with minimum compensation. Loyalty was expected, even when it wasn't earned. Employees were rarely encouraged to speak up or voice concerns, and those who dared often found themselves isolated or punished. Fear of reprisal kept people silent, creating an atmosphere where overwork, stress, and burnout were not only common—they were expected. That oppressive dynamic had birthed the infamous "Black Company" culture, where survival often meant enduring in silence.
This also contributes to Japan's declining birth rate, as many employees feel that they are simply "not ready" to start a family. The reasons are often rooted in exhaustion, financial insecurity, and the lack of time or emotional stability caused by their relentless and unforgiving work environments. It's a silent tragedy—people working themselves into the ground, sacrificing not only their health but their personal futures as well. The dream of building a family becomes distant, buried beneath layers of unpaid overtime, social pressure, and workplace exploitation. It's not just unfortunate—it's fundamentally unfair, and Zaboru knew deep down that anyone should feel like this.
Zaboru exhaled slowly, watching the skyline outside his towering office windows. "But if the government and TV Tokyo are really serious about this documentary project… if it's done right, with authenticity and hope, maybe it can change something. Maybe it can give people a glimpse of a different future. One where workplaces are built on respect, innovation, and support—not fear."
He smiled faintly, the flame of quiet rebellion still burning within him. "Let this show be the first crack in the old walls."
To be continue
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