Mitsui Chūtai didn't say anything directly while still inside Sunrise. Instead, he cast Takuya a meaningful glance and quietly led him to a secluded alley in Ginza, into the famed kaiseki restaurant—Kichō.
This was where the true elites of Tokyo came to speak in confidence. Every plant, every utensil carried the silent warning: "Enter only if invited."
Mitsui did not rush to speak, and Takuya did not rush to ask.
His heart was clear as a mirror.
Though Mitsui's appearance remained calm, beneath that composed brow flickered a faint, restless tension—like an undercurrent beneath a placid sea.
Since the man intended to test his patience, Takuya simply accompanied him.
He owed Mitsui a small favor anyway, for connecting Sega with both Sega and Sunrise previously. So he sat with a relaxed posture, as though simply enjoying a meal with an old friend, chatting casually while exquisite dishes and warm sake arrived one after another.
The atmosphere grew as mellow as a reunion between long-lost companions.
After three rounds of sake and five varieties of dishes, the fragrance of rice wine hung thicker in the air.
At last, Mitsui couldn't hold it any longer.
Setting down his cup, he spoke as if in passing, "Come to think of it, some of the fellows at Bandai tried to reach you recently about a small matter. They said they couldn't get in touch at all. I hope they didn't trouble you?"
Takuya's expression shifted to a perfectly measured hint of apology.
"Ah, Mitsui-san, you wouldn't believe it. These past weeks have been inhuman for me." He lifted a slice of fatty tuna, letting just a trace of weariness show. "My father ordered me to fly to North America."
"First I had to settle accounts in Redmond, then immediately rush to Los Angeles to arm-wrestle with those Hollywood producers whose noses point at the sky—negotiating several IP collaborations. Then I had to inspect our local distribution channels one by one. Every day, not a moment to breathe."
As if suddenly remembering something, he set down his chopsticks, pulled a small velvet box from his briefcase, and slid it across the table.
"A little souvenir for Mitsui-san. Limited-edition Paramount cufflinks. Just a token."
Mitsui accepted the box instinctively, but before he could respond, Takuya's words continued to flow.
"You've never seen people as shrewd as those Hollywood types. It took forever just to get Spielberg to finalize the Hook adaptation. Then I had to run over to John Hughes to settle a product placement in one of his films. After that, discuss tech cooperation with James Cameron. Just when I thought I could breathe, Paramount dragged me to the East Coast to talk to Tom Clancy—listening to him ramble for half a day about submarine sonar…"
He spoke lightly, but in Mitsui's ears, each name crashed like thunder.
Spielberg? Cameron? These men were the peak of the Hollywood pyramid—and the young man before him spoke of them as casually as one might talk about the manager of the convenience store downstairs.
The words Mitsui had prepared were forced back into his throat.
Before he could reorganize himself, Takuya refilled his own cup and continued:
"Finally got back to Japan, reported to the board, and right after that, my mother conscripted me."
He chuckled helplessly, warmth flickering beneath the smile.
"You know my mother's temperament. With my engagement to Eri, she insists on personally overseeing every detail. And as her son—how could I dare be anything but cooperative?"
This combination was flawless.
First, international business that demanded full attention.
Then, the entirely reasonable family obligations surrounding his engagement—to the princess of TV Tokyo, no less.
Every reason was impeccable. Every reason forced Mitsui not only to yield, but to offer congratulations.
"I see, I see… Then I must congratulate you, Takuya-kun. You and Miss Eri—truly a heavenly match."
Mitsui felt as though all the rhetoric he had prepared turned into a stone stuck in his throat—unable to move up or down.
He had already sensed at the screening that the TV Tokyo producer's attitude toward Takuya was no longer merely "polite," but "deferential"—the bearing of a subordinate before a young master.
After another few cups of sake, the liquor finally loosened Mitsui's restraint. Dropping all pretense, he asked bluntly:
"Takuya-kun, I'll speak plainly. What must Sega do—what must you do—to help Bandai weather this economic downturn?"
The air froze.
Takuya's relaxed smile slowly faded. He picked up the chilled glass cup and took a small sip of clear sake. The cold liquid slipped down his throat, but his gaze turned sharp as a blade.
Lifting the sake bottle, he filled Mitsui's cup with a soft, crystalline sound.
"Mitsui-san, I understand Bandai's difficulties."
"That's why, during our last meeting at Sunrise, I already asked President Itō to relay my suggestion to Bandai."
"And with the snap-fit molding technology we helped you break through previously—"
He paused, gently setting the bottle down. The crisp tap struck straight into Mitsui's chest.
"These are issues of product detail. They're the best solutions I could offer—as a friend."
His tone was gentle, but the line he drew was unmistakable.
"Anything deeper concerns corporate operations—future strategy. For me, an outsider, to meddle in Bandai's internal affairs would break all propriety. If word spread, how would others see Sega? And how would they see our ally, Bandai?"
Takuya's eyes darkened, deep as a well that saw through everything.
"Mitsui-san, we are friends. Sega and Bandai are allies."
"Precisely because of that, we must respect boundaries—and avoid suspicion."
Those words sobered Mitsui more than cold water.
A thin sheen of sweat gathered on his back.
Takuya's words were courteous—but merciless.
He did not say no.
He simply told him: I have already done everything a friend should. The rest is your problem.
If Bandai desired anything beyond that, the cost would not be small—not even for an ally.
Mitsui finally understood. The decisions ahead were no longer his to influence, nor something Takuya would agree to even if pressed.
He exhaled deeply, as though removing a thousand-pound weight from his shoulders, and forced a smile back onto his face.
He lifted the bottle, poured for Takuya and then himself. This time, the smile he wore carried genuine reverence.
"Thank you for the lesson, Nakayama-san."
Raising his cup, he said,
"No more gloomy topics. Come—tell me, what interesting sights did you see during your trip to America?"
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