"A film that unleashes the full allure of firearms," Takuya said, eyes gleaming. "The protagonist won't be a soldier or a cop. He's a retired top-tier hitman. No patriotism, no national duty—just pure personal vendetta and the aesthetics of violence."
He began recounting the framework of the John Wick he remembered from his previous life.
"We'll create a combat style built entirely around guns—slick, efficient, mesmerizing. Every magazine change, every aim, every shot will be as precise and elegant as choreography. The audience won't see chaotic gunfights—they'll be watching a ballet of firearms."
"In the film, the gun becomes part of the protagonist himself. We'll use close-ups to show how he selects his weapons, how he mounts accessories onto our 'tactical rail.' These guns won't be cold props—they'll be living partners he trusts with his life."
"We can even integrate the idea of home defense," Takuya added with a faint smile. "The hero's home will be a modern fortress. Hidden gun cabinets inside walls, a weapons vault behind the bookshelf. We can even collaborate with high-end interior design firms—sell 'security' and 'taste' as a pair. Show the American middle class that owning a professional home-defense setup is just as much a premium lifestyle choice as owning a home theater."
Tom Clancy's eyelid twitched. He muttered under his breath, "Good lord—are you selling guns or selling a lifestyle brand?"
But Matt Wallace's eyes were shining. He could already see gun lovers and movie fans lining up with fistfuls of cash.
He even recalled the E.T. Reese's Pieces phenomenon from eight years ago.
This plan was too complete—too tempting.
And then Takuya began weaving his real spell.
"Mr. Wallace, you aren't just selling guns. You're selling the American spirit." His voice carried a strange, compelling resonance—both Americans in the room unconsciously straightened up to listen.
"Think about how this country was founded—militiamen with crude muskets standing against the strongest empire of their time. For what? Freedom."
"Then the Civil War—freeing the enslaved—also with guns. World War II—your fathers and grandfathers carrying M1 Garands to save the world from fascism. Firearms are woven into this nation's DNA. They represent freedom, responsibility, protection."
The words hit Matt like a key fitting into an ancient lock.
He had lived half his life—and this was the first time he'd heard that his company bore such a glorious, sacred legacy.
"So American families don't just need a pistol in the nightstand. They need a way of life." Takuya spoke slowly, each word sinking into Matt's chest. "Men shoulder the burden of their households. A trip to the shooting range is both traditional stress relief and a way to maintain proficiency—to protect the family. On a larger scale, that promotes household harmony and reduces social aggression. It deserves scientific, dignified promotion."
Matt stared in awe, mouth slightly open—an expression of We're this amazing? Since when?
Even Tom Clancy clicked his tongue quietly. This kid is wasted on game design—he should be in politics.
Eventually, Matt finally regained his commercial instincts. He leaned forward, fingers steepled, eyes sharp.
"Mr. Nakayama, your vision is… impressive," he said carefully. "But in this entire grand blueprint, I don't see SEGA's profit. You're giving away the standard, helping us plan the film… What are you after?"
He watched Takuya's face with laser focus.
Those who claim to want nothing are often the ones who want the most.
Takuya met his gaze calmly. "SEGA's request is simple—and small. We want exclusive game adaptation rights for the film series for the next ten years."
"Ten years?" Matt blurted out—voice rising. "That's far too long!"
In the ever-changing entertainment industry, ten years could see a company rise and fall completely.
It was like locking away a gold mine that could become immensely valuable.
After all, this project was backed by firearm giants and Hollywood—its chances of success were naturally high.
"Mr. Wallace, you misunderstand." Takuya remained smiling, but his tone carried the earnestness of a technical professional. "Modern game technology simply cannot reproduce the shooting feel we envision. If we rush a low-quality shooter to market, that harms SEGA's brand—and Colt's, and the film's, and the entire ecosystem we're building."
He spread his hands helplessly.
"We'd rather wait for technology to catch up than pollute the IP with a half-baked game. That's why we need ten years—to wait for the right moment."
It was reasonable—responsible, even.
But Matt still refused to budge. "Five years. That's the maximum."
"Five?" Takuya shook his head. "The next-gen console standards aren't even finalized. Development will take three to four years. After launch, game production needs another two or three. In five years, we'd be forced to use current technology—and the result would be no better than those wooden-target shooters on the market."
He hesitated, as though finally conceding something difficult.
"Then let's split the difference. Seven years." He raised seven fingers. "We guarantee development will begin within seven years. That's the minimum needed to ensure quality. Any shorter, and we compromise the project. And remember—SEGA is not taking a single cent from this ecosystem."
He kicked the ball back into Matt's court—framed it as a matter of quality, pointed out SEGA's lack of financial demands, and left Matt without a good angle to argue.
Matt calculated rapidly.
Ten down to seven—he could claim victory to the board.
The Japanese kid was slippery… but his reasoning was solid.
"…Fine. Seven years." He finally nodded.
Just then, Takuya's brand-new Motorola MicroTAC 9800X suddenly rang.
He offered a brief apologetic gesture and answered.
He spoke only a few short "OK"s—then hung up.
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