Sora froze for a moment, as if he needed to confirm with his own eyes what he was seeing: across the table, Sumire was smiling.
Carefully sifting through the previous owner's memories, he realized something simple-and precisely because it was simple, it felt strange. In those memories, Sumire almost never smiled. Not like this, at least. Not so light, so clean, as if it had slipped out of her without effort.
He stood up and took the hand she offered.
Her skin was soft, slightly cold to the touch, yet her grip was firm. It wasn't a handshake for the sake of politeness-it was a decision.
"Then it's settled."
…
That same afternoon, every remaining employee of Dream Animation received an official notice from the company's new president, Sora Kamakawa.
Ever since the crushing disaster of The Holy Knight and the Princess after its broadcast on the local station, Sora had spent weeks in a state that bordered on self-destruction. Over the past month, he had practically locked himself in his office day and night; whenever the cleaning staff went in, they came out with full trash bags and the stale smell of alcohol clinging to the air-empty bottles piled up as if he hadn't even tried to hide them.
And in the days before that, things seemed to get worse. His pale face, deep eye bags, and blank expression made him look ill. Several employees, too afraid to say it out loud, wondered whether the eighteen-year-old president-crushed by debt and the weight of a sinking company-might collapse from stress at any moment.
But over the last two days, his expression had visibly improved. The staff's anxiety eased slightly-not because they truly regained hope, but because, even if no one said it plainly, most had already accepted that the company wouldn't last much longer. The end felt like a matter of time.
That was why the meeting notice that afternoon-combined with the fact that the company had paid all overdue wages that very morning-led every department to the same conclusion, even if they reached it by different routes.
This was probably the final announcement.
"Honestly… you can't even blame the kid," someone muttered in a low voice, as if wishing their own words didn't exist. "The failure of The Holy Knight and the Princess and I'm the Demon King's Son-in-Law, and Also the Hero of the New Era! had nothing to do with him. Those were projects led by the previous president, Mr. Hiroshi… Those two original productions are what pushed the company into the abyss."
"Yeah… even if Hiroshi were still alive, The Holy Knight and the Princess was bound to flop," another person replied with a short sigh. "In the end, Sora's the one carrying everything. I watched that boy grow up. He's younger than my son… and now he's drowning in debt."
"I remember the beginning… when we started this place with President Hiroshi," someone added, bitter humor creeping into their tone. "We weren't even ten people. A makeshift studio crammed into a fifty-square-meter basement, taking outsourcing work from anywhere we could… Years and years to get where we got. And two anime were enough to wreck it all."
"That's the anime industry for you. You don't earn much, you work until you break… and you still have to smile."
"If my kid ever says he wants to major in animation, I'm breaking his leg first."
"Hahaha…"
…
Despite the joking tone, there was no real lightness in it. Still, it wasn't full-blown panic either. Most of them were technical professionals: key animators, effects specialists, supervisors-people who did the hard work. Even if Dream Animation shut down, they wouldn't be stranded. The Japanese market still had demand; those who couldn't land at a major studio could survive on outsourcing, connections, referrals-small jobs that never truly ran out for skilled hands.
At two in the afternoon, they began arriving in the conference room one by one.
The company had shrunk until barely more than ten people remained-most of them veterans who had been with Hiroshi Kamakawa from the beginning. Among everyone there, only one person was under twenty: the president himself, Sora.
In their twenties, there were only two. Sumire, twenty-two, and her assistant-her junior by a year at university-Erina.
Everyone else was a block of seasoned professionals in their thirties, forties, and fifties. People who had watched studios rise and fall, carrying in their bodies the exhaustion of years spent under impossible deadlines.
Sumire entered first. She wore a black professional outfit, a knee-length skirt, her posture immaculate, a folder of documents in hand. Without showing urgency or anxiety, she walked to her seat and sat down.
Right behind her came Erina, her cheeks slightly round, still chewing on something as if not even a meeting could make her stop eating. She settled in beside Sumire with the ease of someone already used to surviving inside production chaos.
The only remaining veteran key animator-who also carried the role of overall animation supervisor-was Haruto. A sturdy, bald man in his forties, always wearing an easy smile, as if he had learned not to waste energy on despair.
The director of photography was Hina: an elegant, slender woman in her fifties, with calm eyes and meticulous habits. While the others poured tea, she brought her own hand-brewed coffee and savored it like a personal ritual of survival.
The 3D team, on the other hand, was completely gone.
Even so, the person in charge of coloring and checks-a tall man with muscular arms, the aura of someone who split his life between deadlines and the gym-was still there, along with a few in-house animators.
…
With the room filled, conversations began the way they always do when people pretend they don't know the ending: small questions, side comments, short laughs.
Even with the reduced staff, several key positions were still covered. And that was exactly why, deep down, Sora felt there was still a lifeline here-thin, fragile, but real.
He took a deep breath and walked into the room.
In that moment, more than ten pairs of eyes turned toward him-heavy, alert, waiting for a verdict. Sora glanced briefly at Sumire, as if he needed to confirm she was truly there-that her "yes" hadn't been an impulse-and then he turned on the computer, the projector, and plugged in the USB drive.
Most employees had arrived with the same expectation: Today he announces it's over.
But when the first slide appeared, the atmosphere changed.
It wasn't a shutdown notice.
It was a project.
A new animation proposal titled: Voices of a Distant Star.
Eyes that had looked resigned gained a different color. Sora saw it immediately-the kind of shock that doesn't need words.
A new project?
Now?
Why?
He didn't over-explain, because in his mind, work didn't require an apology. If there was a chance-no matter how small-it had to be used.
Sora presented the plan with straightforward clarity, no extra flourishes. And when he finished, he dropped the most decisive information: the planned broadcast date.
March 30th, Saturday, at 10 p.m.
Then he began assigning roles, one by one, like building a skeleton before the body existed.
"Ren will handle production management. No issues?" he asked, looking at a long-haired man in his thirties.
"N-no issues," Ren replied calmly, already carrying too many questions inside and knowing that asking wouldn't change anything.
"Hina stays on as director of photography."
"With the 3D department dismantled, all 3D work will be outsourced."
"The audio department left entirely. Sound effects will be outsourced. As for the music-theme, score, and insert tracks-that will be handled by me personally."
The moment Sora said that, it wasn't just surprise in the room-it was near collective paralysis. And it wasn't only the veterans. Even Sumire turned her head slowly, eyes wider than normal, as if she'd heard something too absurd to accept without rechecking.
He understood the reaction, but he didn't explain. Not there.
"The role of production director will also be handled by me," Sora continued. "The previous person in charge resigned last month."
Sumire drew a deep breath, clearly on the verge of objecting, but logic forced itself in. That role existed to track schedules, align production, handle contacts, and keep everything moving. With a single-episode project and a president already negotiating broadcast and deadlines, Sora was already doing that work even without the title.
Sora knew what she was thinking: This is insane. But he also knew something else-he wasn't stacking roles out of vanity. The project was short, the money was tight, the team was minimal, and there was no room for luxury.
"Haruto, can you continue as overall animation supervisor? Same as you did on The Holy Knight and the Princess," he asked, keeping the formal meeting tone.
Haruto, who had been observing until then, hesitated. He looked around. Then he asked the question that had been stuck in everyone's throat since the very first slide.
"President… does the company still have the money… to fund an original production?"
Sora fell silent for a brief moment and looked straight at the group.
"Yes."
It was a simple answer, but it carried weight. In practice, after paying overdue wages and reserving unavoidable distribution costs, the cash left wasn't large. From the initial amount, a little over 1.3 million yen remained for production.
"Voices of a Distant Star will be under thirty minutes," Sora explained. "And the production budget is 1.3 million yen."
Some faces turned thoughtful. It wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't completely impossible for a short either. It was tight-brutally tight-the kind that demanded discipline and the right choices.
Sora kept going, not giving doubt the space to turn into uproar.
"Direction of animation will be handled by Sumire."
And then, finally, he said the line that truly shook the room.
"And the overall director… will be me."
For a second, even Hina-always elegant, always composed-seemed to lose control: the hand holding her cup trembled just enough to betray the shock.
The rest of the room reacted the way people react when reality edges into something dangerous: widened eyes, tightened brows, swallowed breaths. No one spoke, but the thought was obvious.
You?
Do you have experience?
There's no one better?
You're really not bringing in a rescue director?
Sora didn't try to "convince" them with empty promises. He knew that wouldn't work. Suspicion toward an eighteen-year-old president taking the director's chair was something words couldn't erase.
Only results could.
Even so, he had to stabilize the room.
"I'm not doing this on a whim," he said, raising his voice enough to cut off any whispers that might start. "And I'm not 'giving up' and gambling everything."
Then he spoke.
He spoke about the crisis the company had faced, the pressure, the accumulated mistakes, what had gone wrong. And above all, he spoke about Hiroshi Kamakawa-about the days when everything was small, ugly, improvised, and yet there was still a dream. He spoke of effort, of time, of years, of a foundation built over more than a decade.
The speech didn't change the facts. It didn't erase the looming collapse, it didn't make money appear, it didn't bring back those who had already left.
But it gave the room something it hadn't had in a long time: a direction.
"This is the greatest crisis since Dream Animation was founded," Sora concluded. "But it's also our chance to be reborn. I, Sora Kamakawa, will correct the mistakes of the past and raise this studio to a new level. Thank you."
…
Soon after, people began to leave, one by one, in silence, carrying too many thoughts.
They hadn't heard an announcement of the end.
They had been given a schedule.
They had been given a project.
The doubts remained, of course. The fear of becoming part of an "infamous work"-the kind that turns into an eternal joke-was still there. But most of them had a long history with Hiroshi Kamakawa. Many were more than long-time employees-they were people who had walked alongside him, shared cramped rooms, sleepless nights, hard phases.
And because of that, when Sora pulled on the thread of his father's memory and pressed the emotional lever, it worked-just enough to hold together what was about to collapse.
Some who had been ready to quit decided to wait.
When the door finally closed, only two remained in the room: Sora and Sumire.
Sumire, still in black, posture flawless, legs aligned, looked at him with a rare blend of curiosity and surprise.
"You don't look like it… but you've got what it takes to be a president," she said, as if acknowledging something she didn't want to admit too easily.
Sora gave a tired smile and raised his cup, taking a sip to moisten the throat he'd spoken raw.
"I just can't let them lose hope," he replied, not trying to look bigger than he was. "If they leave too… then it really ends."
There were a few seconds of silence before he pulled the conversation back to what mattered.
"You were right. We only have three months," Sora said, more direct now, with the real weight of time pressing into his words. "Starting tomorrow, I'm going all-in on the storyboards for Voices of a Distant Star. Within a week, I need to sign the broadcast contract with the station. After that… I'll need you. I need you to help me steer this production. I'm still not a fully formed director."
The room went quiet for a moment. It wasn't the silence of doubt. It was the silence of a decision.
Then Sumire's voice came, soft-but firm enough to leave no gap.
"Relax," she said. "I won't let you down."
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