The sky was a dim yellow as dusk settled over Minato Ward, Tokyo. In front of the headquarters of Tokyo Eizo Broadcasting (TEB), an aging security guard tilted his head back to gaze at the horizon. Through the gaps between towering skyscrapers, the sky shimmered with streaks of red and purple clouds layered upon one another, casting shadows that hinted at an impending storm. The colors were striking—almost beautiful—but ominous.
"Looks like rain tonight," he muttered under his breath. For someone in his line of work, rain wasn't all bad. Fewer people meant fewer problems. He shrugged it off, shuffled back toward the security booth by the main gate, picked up his mug, and took a sip of hot tea. A contented sigh escaped him. Sure, being a security guard wasn't glamorous, but he was grateful for the stability—a rare commodity these days.
Just three years ago, in early 1992, Japan's bubble economy had burst overnight. He'd learned the term from newspapers. Property values plummeted, companies folded without warning, and even banks went belly-up. Overnight, rooftops became crowded with desperate souls lining up to jump, while parks swelled with hollow-eyed drifters.
Now, though the number of homeless had started to dwindle, the economy remained sluggish. Layoffs were routine; this was what they called the Great Recession. Landing a decent job was harder than ever. Those good old days? Gone.
Before the crash, jobs were everywhere. Companies fought tooth and nail over fresh graduates, luring them with luxury stays at hot springs resorts before signing them onto lifelong contracts. Employees at big trading firms and banks lived like kings, drowning in champagne and steak dinners—not because they wanted to, but because corporate culture demanded it.
"You haven't spent your monthly entertainment budget yet?" a boss might bark. "Are you slacking off on client relations?"
"Not spending enough? Useless! Where's your ambition?"
"What? You're sticking to cheap sake and sushi? Are you out of touch? Do you even respect our clients—or this company?!"
"One more round—and make it count! Show them the spirit of Japan, the world's top economic power!"
"Damn it, these new hires nowadays don't have an ounce of drive in them. How are we supposed to buy America like this?"
That kind of excess felt like something out of a fever dream. Back then, if you wanted a taxi after a night of drinking, you had to wave wads of ten-thousand-yen bills just to get noticed. Regular fares didn't cut it anymore.
But now? After nearly three years, landing any job felt miraculous. It was as though the entire era had been an illusion, leaving Japan teetering on the brink of collapse. Like fireworks exploding into dazzling brilliance only to fizzle into ash with a soft "wow."
Had Japan burned through its potential during that nationwide frenzy?
No, no—it couldn't be permanent. Newspapers said things would improve by next spring. But here they were, nearing the end of the year, and nothing seemed better. What was going on?
The security guard let his mind wander, reflecting on the past with a mix of nostalgia and confusion. At forty-something, he'd lived through Japan's golden age of prosperity when personal wealth soared. Though he lacked formal education, he understood enough to feel the loss deeply. Why had everything fallen apart so suddenly? And where did they go from here?
Still, the broadcasting industry had weathered the storm relatively well. His position wasn't high-paying, but it was stable—better than most. This gave him room to muse idly, perhaps driven by empathy for those less fortunate. Many of his old friends had fallen on hard times; some had already packed up and returned to their hometowns.
Lost in thought, he kept half an eye on the comings and goings outside the gate. Suddenly, he spotted someone approaching without a badge. Instantly alert, he straightened up. In these uncertain times, losing his job wasn't an option—not with mouths to feed and children to educate. Mistakes weren't allowed.
But as soon as he stood, recognition dawned, and relief washed over him. Through the window, he greeted the man with a smile. "Ah, Chihara-san! Back again?"
This visitor, Chihara Rinto, was new to him, having first appeared about four or five days ago trying to sneak into the building. Instead of getting flustered or angry when stopped, Chihara had struck up a conversation. Normally, the guard wouldn't have indulged such behavior, but there was something intriguing about this young man.
Chihara looked about twenty-two or twenty-three, with slightly messy short hair, fair skin, and a gentle demeanor. His bright eyes and composed expression made him seem approachable, yet there was an underlying sharpness—a quiet intensity that discouraged confrontation. Perhaps it was innate charisma; the guard couldn't quite put his finger on it. Either way, he hadn't turned Chihara away.
Over the past few days, Chihara had become a familiar face around the entrance, chatting amiably with the rotating shifts of guards. He'd even treated them to drinks at a nearby izakaya bar twice, earning their goodwill. Polite, well-spoken, and genuinely interested in their stories, Chihara seemed harmless enough. Yet harmless or not, letting him inside was out of the question.
TEB was one of Japan's four major commercial broadcasters, housing two production hubs within its headquarters. With nearly fifty studios—many hosting live broadcasts—an unauthorized entry could spell disaster. No one wanted to bear responsibility for a broadcast mishap.
As Chihara approached, the guard preemptively reiterated the rules, though his tone stayed friendly. "Sorry, Chihara-san, still can't let you in today. Hope you understand."
He suspected Chihara might be chasing a celebrity—a common occurrence—but the young man carried himself with too much poise to fit the typical obsessive fan mold. Something about him didn't add up.
Chihara accepted the rejection gracefully, nodding greetings to the other guards before smiling. "Not a problem, Maegawa-san. I'm just waiting for someone… Is Murakami-san off yet?"
"Murakami-san? Not yet. Her show ends at seven, so she usually leaves around quarter past." There was no harm in sharing this information, and Maegawa Kenichiro, the security guard, offered helpfully, "Are you looking for her? Should I call ahead?"
He still didn't fully grasp why Chihara frequented the premises or why he showed such interest in TEB gossip. But since Chihara treated everyone respectfully—even lowly guards—he decided to extend a courtesy.
Chihara declined politely. "No need, Maegawa-san. I'll wait here."
Reassured that his target hadn't left, Chihara relaxed. He exchanged a few more pleasantries with Maegawa before stepping aside to rehearse his pitch mentally.
Hopefully, everything would go smoothly…
What rotten luck, finding himself in an era where even a steady job was hard to come by. No wonder Japan had so many shut-ins and adults living off their parents. The roots ran deep.