The morning sun streamed through the blinds, casting dappled light across Takuya Nakayama's desk.
Just as he returned from brewing his morning coffee, the office phone rang.
"Takuya!"
The voice on the other end was a world apart from the tired, fragile tone he'd heard days ago — now bright, energetic, and bubbling with excitement.
"Looks like our 'lubricant' worked pretty well?" Takuya leaned back in his chair, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"Not just pretty well — it worked like magic!" Eri's voice carried a teasing pride, like she was showing off a hard-won trophy.
"Oh? So our producer has mastered the battlefield already?" he chuckled.
"Hmph! You should've seen it. The moment I handed over the 'logistics expense authority' to the local producer, his eyes lit up like fireworks!"
"The camera import approval that had been stuck for three days? Done in thirty minutes! And that Mr. Wang who'd been blocking everything — the very next day, he showed up at the studio with a fruit basket, all smiles! I swear, his face changed faster than flipping pages!"
Her tone was half smug, half disgusted.
"And that pastry master who kept refusing our calls? Today he cleared the entire kitchen just for us! He even told his assistants to stay out so we could film freely!"
Eri laughed — light, crisp, triumphant.
"They're even offering to use their own connections to get us access to historic courtyards and gardens that aren't open to the public — all in the name of showing off the 'purest form of Chinese aesthetics!' It's like we're being treated like royalty!"
"Hard work, Princess," Takuya teased gently.
"Not hard at all!" she replied, her voice soft with affection but filled with pride. "As long as you're here, I'm not afraid of anything."
"Oh, and guess what," she lowered her voice, as if sharing a secret. "That thing about the film reels? You were right."
"They actually borrowed our camera to shoot a leadership inspection! A dozen people clapping and shaking hands in front of the lens — they used an entire roll of film! The scene was ridiculous."
"Our cinematographer nearly cried watching it, but I had to hold in my laughter and tell him, 'It's a necessary expense.'"
As Eri described it all so vividly, Takuya couldn't help but smile wider.
"This morning, the first batch of master tapes was already sent off to Tokyo," she said proudly. "The project's right on schedule — and all expenses are within budget!"
Her tone softened suddenly, turning sincere. "Takuya… thank you. If it weren't for you, I probably would've been crying my way home by now."
"Idiot," he said tenderly. "I'd never let my girlfriend suffer out there alone."
That single phrase — my girlfriend — made Eri's breath hitch. Then came a rush of warmth, sweetness blooming across her face.
When the call ended, Takuya set the phone down and called his assistant into the office.
It was time for the monthly sales report.
"The RPG title Golden Sun: The Lost Age has sold over 700,000 copies in Japan within two weeks — incredible momentum!"
"Grand Strategy is performing excellently among core players, with strong word-of-mouth."
"Super Ninja 2 is a hit with traditional action fans. Sales are steadily climbing."
The assistant read off the good news line after line.
Takuya had deliberately set these releases for November, leaving the December holiday season open for third-party developers.
That single move had won Sega immense goodwill — smaller studios were now practically worshipping them, pledging long-term loyalty for the gesture.
"What about the GamePocket?" Takuya asked, shifting topics.
"We've basically secured victory!" the assistant said, voice full of excitement. "Counting third-party titles, our library just passed the 60-game mark! Meanwhile, Nintendo's GameBoy is still hanging on, but their market share's been squeezed below 20%. Their library's much smaller, and visibility is low."
The handheld console war had lasted almost a year — and Sega now stood miles ahead.
It seemed Nintendo had already begun cutting back investment in their handheld division.
After a moment of quiet thought, Takuya began issuing new orders.
"The new arcade board finished testing two weeks ago, right? Have the Super Ninja 2 team take a short break, then start on a new arcade action title immediately — something even more fun."
"Team 8 should simplify Grand Strategy and prepare a GamePocket port."
"As for Team 3…" He turned to the window, gazing out. "Make sure development on Pokémon Gold & Silver accelerates. The anime's popularity is skyrocketing — we can't afford to fall behind."
The assistant scribbled furiously, repeating the orders back.
Before leaving, Takuya casually asked, "By the way, Ginza and Akihabara must be lively these days, huh?"
The assistant laughed. "Of course, sir! The economy's booming, everyone's wallets are fat — people are already planning New Year vacations. You can feel the optimism everywhere."
"I see."
Takuya's response was brief. But his eyes darkened slightly, reflecting something far deeper.
Lively? That was the last dance before the fall.
Generous year-end bonuses? Soon to be nothing but worthless paper.
Just last month, the Bank of Japan had raised interest rates again.
In his heart, Takuya remembered it all — that coming storm the history books would later call the Lost Thirty Years.
On paper, it was a "controlled adjustment." In reality, it was the needle aimed at the bubble.
Once the stock market crashed, the dominoes would fall fast — wiping out the life savings of countless families overnight.
That was why he had frontloaded Sega's releases into November.
To outsiders, it looked like a gracious move — leaving the crowded holiday window open for partners, showing "big brother" confidence.
But only he knew the truth:
He was racing the central bank against time.
He wanted to secure players' money — especially those fat year-end bonuses from white-collar workers — before the bubble burst.
December would be "blessings" left for the third parties.
By then, even if players got their New Year cash, most would have it "temporarily confiscated" by worried parents, claiming they'd hold it for safekeeping.
And when pockets tightened, gamers would turn to cheaper handheld titles — or to arcade machines that cost just a few hundred yen per play.
After the assistant left, silence filled the office.
Takuya sat alone, eyes drifting past the glittering skyline — seeing, in his mind's eye, the months to come.
The panic. The chaos.
And the sight of desperate investors leaping from buildings as the era's false prosperity came crashing down.
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