The fervor from the Sega-Sony executive meeting lingered, and both sides moved swiftly, forming the joint organizing committee for the "Second Esports Tournament and DDR Global City Showdown" with lightning speed.
Elite teams from Sega and Sony meshed seamlessly, diving into intense negotiations over collaboration details.
Meanwhile, Sony Music President Shigeo Maruyama's promises materialized at breakneck pace.
In Sony Music's headquarters, recording studios and rehearsal rooms—birthplaces of countless platinum hits—blazed with activity.
Top choreographers huddled over DDR prototype videos, dissecting every beat and move.
Seasoned lighting crews crafted stage effects to maximize visual impact.
Ace music producers sifted through Sony's vast catalog, curating DDR's inaugural tracklist.
The female idol groups Takuya Nakayama had emphasized received covert directives from on high. Puzzled but diligent managers rallied their youthful stars for secret DDR training.
Most bewildered were Sega's *Pokémon* mascot performers, lugging their costume gear to Sony's labs for dance practice.
This sprawling cross-industry collaboration roped in Sony Music's artists and production teams. With Sega's developers constantly in and out, project secrecy melted like thin ice under a spring sun.
"Heard the buzz? Sony's cooking something big with Sega."
"Yeah, some kind of dance arcade game—supposedly a total game-changer!"
At first, it was hushed whispers in gaming and music circles.
But as vague yet pointed leaks spread, the trickle swelled into a roaring river.
"Sony Music's top producers are on it—must be a blockbuster project!"
"Sega's side? Word is, it's Takuya Nakayama again. That guy always shakes things up."
Game media and music magazines, like sharks scenting blood, pounced on the unusual activity.
Mainstream financial outlets took notice of the giants' tight-knit moves, probing for signals of industry shifts.
Reporters, frenzied, worked connections and dug for exclusive scoops on the mystery project.
Sega and Sony's PR teams were swamped—phones ringing off the hook, inboxes overflowing.
Per high-level orders, they neither confirmed nor denied, deflecting with polished diplomatic responses.
This "controlled leakage" was like a drop of water in a sizzling pan, igniting market curiosity and priming DDR's grand debut with massive hype.
Finally, a bold entertainment outlet, known for its keen nose and audacity, acted on a solid tip.
Outside Sony's headquarters, reporters and photographers lay in wait like leopards.
As famed singer Akemi Ishii emerged, slightly weary, from a meeting, they swarmed.
Flashbulbs erupted, lighting her startled face stark white.
"Miss Ishii! Are you involved in Sony and Sega's secret project?" a reporter thrust a microphone near her lips, cutting straight to the chase.
Akemi, a seasoned star, quickly composed herself, flashing a professional smile. "Oh, work details? Not quite ready to share," she replied, her sweet tone laced with deft deflection.
"Rumor has it your 1986 chart-topping hit, *CHA-CHA-CHA*, Japan's top-selling single, will feature in this new music-dance game. Is that true?"
The reporter, well-prepared, lobbed a bombshell.
*CHA-CHA-CHA*! The song was practically etched in Japan's cultural DNA.
Akemi's smile flickered subtly, a faint ripple in her eyes. She didn't deny it, sidestepping instead. "Heh, you all sure love my songs," she said lightly. "For project details, wait for the official word—it's coming soon."
She gently pushed past the microphones, escorted by her assistant to a waiting van.
The brief interview, paired with the reporter's embellished write-up, spread like wildfire across newspapers and TV news.
Akemi's "non-denial" and "trade secret" line read as near-confirmation to an eager public.
"No way! *CHA-CHA-CHA* in a game?!"
"If it's real, I'm playing it!"
"For *CHA-CHA-CHA*, I'll learn to dance!"
Public anticipation for the mystery arcade dance game hit fever pitch.
Even non-gamers, drawn by the iconic song, turned their eyes to the gaming world.
At the storm's other end, in Nintendo's headquarters, reports on the Sega-Sony alliance piled up like snowflakes on the executives' desks.
Each detailed a troubling truth: this partnership was unprecedented, with Sony pouring its core music-entertainment resources into it.
Hiroshi Yamauchi listened silently to his team's briefing.
"Sony's Maruyama is personally leading, mobilizing their entire music division."
"Sega's spearhead is, as expected, Takuya Nakayama—a wildcard who keeps surprising."
"Preliminary analysis: they're developing a revolutionary music-dance arcade game, planning a global esports tournament around it."
The deeper the intel, the heavier Nintendo's executives' hearts sank.
Sega's arcade innovation already kept them on edge. Now, their rival had forged a deep strategic alliance with Sony, a consumer electronics and entertainment colossus.
The synergy wasn't just one-plus-one—it was exponential.
They could almost foresee Sega's brand soaring and R&D leaping forward if this succeeded, amassing strength for a potential home-console comeback.
Worse, Sony—backed by Akio Morita, one of Japan's "four business sages"—wielded commercial clout and resilience Nintendo couldn't easily challenge.
Any aggressive counter-moves required extreme caution. A misstep could backfire, threatening Nintendo's own foundation.
They watched helplessly as their rivals united, momentum surging, caught in a bind—wanting to disrupt but wary of overreaching, unsure where to strike.