In November, the wind along the Chiba Prefecture coast cut like a blade.
This was Makuhari, a stretch of land recently reclaimed from Tokyo Bay. The air hung heavy with the sharp scent of sea brine and the damp, earthy smell of wet cement. Gray waves slapped relentlessly against the unfinished breakwater, producing a monotonous, dull thud.
The rain was not heavy, yet it was dense and insidious. It did not simply fall; it drifted and seeped, slipping down collars into necks and threading through sleeves to wrists, chilling a person to the marrow.
On the vast construction site, more than a dozen yellow tower cranes stood motionless, their jibs angled in different directions like giant withered branches frozen against the sky. Puddles dotted the ground everywhere, reflecting the gloomy overcast.
"President Okura! You owe us an explanation today!"
"Our wages have been delayed for three months! Everyone is waiting for that money to put food on the table!"
"Didn't the bank just release a loan? Where did the money go? Where?!"
In front of the temporary site office, dozens of men wearing hard hats and raincoats had formed a tight circle. Their angry voices were scattered by the open sea breeze, only to regroup and surge forward again, carrying raw desperation and rage.
At the center of the circle stood a middle-aged man.
Okura Masao.
Only two months earlier, at Seika Academy's anniversary celebration, the head of Okura Real Estate had appeared in a custom Italian suit, his hair meticulously combed. Though he had lost some face when his daughter's auction item failed, he had still carried himself as the commanding real-estate tycoon.
Now he looked as though he had aged a decade overnight.
His once-crisp suit was soaked through, clinging to his body and revealing a slight paunch. His expensive crocodile-leather shoes were buried in yellow mud, and his trouser legs were splattered with filth.
"Everyone, please listen… listen to me…"
Okura Masao raised his hands, his voice hoarse as he struggled to be heard above the clamor.
"It is not that I refuse to pay… the bank's procedures are stalled. Sumitomo says they must re-evaluate the assets. As soon as the appraisal is complete, the funds will be released immediately…"
"Bullshit!"
A burly foreman hurled his hard hat to the ground, splashing muddy water in every direction.
"My cousin drives for Sumitomo Bank! He says the Okura family has already been placed on the 'watch list'! The bank is preparing to call in your loans! How much longer do you intend to lie to us?"
The moment the words "calling in loans" left his mouth, the crowd erupted.
In this era of credit-fueled expansion, a loan recall was a death sentence for any real-estate developer.
Some men began to shove; others surged forward to grab Okura by the collar. His secretary and driver tried desperately to intervene, but they were swept aside by the tide of anger. Okura Masao staggered backward, stumbling into a deep puddle and nearly falling.
It was a pathetic sight.
Utterly pathetic.
Less than fifty meters away, a black Nissan President sedan sat quietly on a concrete slab.
Its windshield wipers moved in steady rhythm—swish, swish, swish—sweeping away the rain and slicing the scene into segments of a silent film.
Inside the car, the heater ran at full blast.
The center armrest in the rear seat was lowered, holding a steaming pot of Earl Grey tea and two exquisite bone-china cups.
Shuichi lifted a teacup and watched the man floundering in the mud through the curtain of rain.
"How tragic," he sighed softly.
He knew Okura Masao. Though they were not close, they had shared drinks at several Chamber of Commerce banquets. Okura had always been shrewd and arrogant, speaking loudly and boasting about the vast tracts of land he had acquired in Chiba and the grand theme park he planned to build one day.
And now that same man was being hounded like a stray dog.
"Satsuki," Shuichi turned to his daughter seated beside him, "should we not intervene?"
Satsuki wore a dark turtleneck sweater beneath a camel-colored coat, with a blanket draped over her legs. She held a book in her hands and did not look up when she heard her father's question.
"Intervene for what?"
"This land." Shuichi pointed out the window. "Although construction has stopped, the government's plan for the Makuhari area remains unchanged. They intend to develop a new sub-center here. The plot in Okura's possession is in a core location—fifteen thousand tsubo. If we could acquire it at a low price now…"
As a businessman, Shuichi's instinct told him this might be an opportunity to secure a bargain.
"What price would count as low?" Satsuki closed her book and finally raised her eyes. Her gaze passed through the rain to rest on the still-arguing crowd.
"Okura originally purchased the land at three hundred thousand yen per tsubo. Adding the initial infrastructure investment, his total cost is at least six billion yen."
"If we negotiate now, he might weep and beg us to take the land, provided we assume the six billion yen in bank debt."
Shuichi considered this for a moment. "Six billion for fifteen thousand tsubo… in the long term, it would certainly be a bargain."
"That is the future," Satsuki replied. She extended a slender finger and tapped lightly on the fogged window. "Father, do you know what it means to 'catch a falling knife'?"
"A falling knife?"
"A knife dropped from a great height. Even if it were made of pure gold, if you reach out to catch it before it strikes the ground, it will slice through your palm and sever your artery."
Satsuki's voice was calm, as though she were stating a fundamental law of physics.
"Okura Real Estate's current debt ratio stands at four hundred percent. This land is mortgaged not only to Sumitomo Bank but also carries a secondary mortgage with Norinchukin Bank, and very likely underground loans from loan sharks as well."
"If we take over now, we would not simply pay him; we would inherit this entire web of debt."
"The workers' unpaid wages, suppliers' bills, bank interest, and those predatory lenders like hungry wolves—they would all descend upon the Saionji family."
Satsuki shook her head.
"That would be foolish."
"Why should we take the bullet for him?"
Shuichi was taken aback. "Then… we simply watch?"
"We watch," Satsuki answered, reopening her book and turning a page. "Until he is completely finished."
"Until the bank loses all patience and petitions the court for bankruptcy liquidation. Until this land is sealed as a distressed asset that no one dares touch."
"Only then will all debt relations be severed by law. We will face a single creditor—the bank, which will be desperate to recover its funds."
"At that point, we will not need to pay six billion. Perhaps twenty billion, or even ten billion, will suffice to acquire the land cleanly."
As Shuichi listened to his daughter's words, a chill ran down his spine.
This mindset was utterly different from that of the old-school merchants, who believed in offering emergency relief and always leaving an opponent a way out.
In his daughter's logic, the word "mercy" simply did not exist.
There was only efficiency—absolute, pure efficiency.
"Besides," Satsuki added, "Mr. Okura is not yet desperate enough."
She pointed into the distance.
"Look, he is still wearing those crocodile-leather shoes. He still clings to his dignity and still harbors the fantasy that the bank will throw him a lifeline."
"As long as he holds onto those illusions, he will not lower the price to rock bottom."
"What we are waiting for is the moment he kneels on the ground and offers up both his pride and the deed with both hands."
Shuichi looked in the direction she indicated.
Indeed, though pitiful, Okura Masao was still arguing his case, still attempting to peddle his vague "grand blueprint" to his creditors.
He had not yet surrendered hope.
At that moment, a white Mercedes sports car roared onto the construction site.
It sped recklessly, tires kicking up walls of muddy water, and screeched to a halt at the edge of the crowd.
The passenger door flew open.
A young girl in a pink trench coat rushed out.
Okura Masami.
Holding a long-handled transparent umbrella, she ignored the mud and stumbled toward the throng.
"Dad! Dad!"
Her voice was sharp and shrill, laced with tears.
"Get out of the way! You barbarians! Leave my father alone!"
She tried to push through the workers to shelter him with the umbrella.
But this was not the ivory tower of Seika Academy, nor the perfume-scented Rose Salon. This was the real world, thick with the smell of sweat and the raw pressure of survival.
"Where did this rich girl come from? Get lost!"
A foreman, already in a foul temper, gave her a casual shove.
"Ah!"
Masami cried out as her high heel twisted beneath her. She fell heavily into the muddy water.
It was her favorite Chanel suit. The pink trench coat turned gray-black in an instant, and the transparent umbrella was trampled underfoot, its ribs snapping like the wings of a dead bird.
"Masami!"
Seeing his daughter fall, Okura Masao pushed through the crowd like a madman and rushed to help her up.
"Why are you here? Who told you to come?!" he roared, his voice torn between heartache and shame.
Allowing his beloved daughter to witness him in such a wretched state hurt more than death itself.
"Dad… ugh…"
Mud covered Masami's face, yet she did not bother to wipe it away. She clung only to her father's arm and sobbed.
"Mom fainted at home… the bank people cut the phone line… they are even going to take away the piano…"
The workers' angry shouting quieted slightly at the sight.
After all, they were men with families too. The scene made them uneasy.
But unease was all it produced.
Compassion could not fill empty stomachs. They, too, had wives and children waiting for money to buy rice.
"President Okura, enough with the pity act!"
"If there is no money today, we will strip these machines and sell them for scrap!"
The clamor rose again.
Masami huddled in her father's arms like a frightened quail. She lifted her tear-streaked eyes, searching helplessly.
Suddenly, her gaze slipped through the gaps in the crowd and the dense curtain of rain, fixing on the black sedan in the distance.
It was a Nissan President.
The golden Hidari Mitsudomoe crest on the hood, shaped like a radiant sun, gleamed piercingly even in the gloomy downpour.
Masami froze.
She recognized that emblem.
It belonged to the Saionji family—the same opponent who had crushed her so completely at the school anniversary.
The car windows were not tinted.
She could vaguely make out two figures in the back seat.
A middle-aged man held a teacup and watched with an expression of pity.
The other… the figure in the camel coat held a book, her profile as calm as still water. She did not even glance over; she simply continued reading, as though everything unfolding outside had nothing to do with her, like watching a silent film through thick glass.
That calm.
That detached, lofty calm.
It shattered Masami more deeply than any open mockery could have done.
"Satsuki…"
Masami murmured, her fingernails digging into her father's flesh.
A wave of shame surged from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head like molten lava, making her entire body tremble.
She wanted to stand, to rush over and demand an explanation, or simply to flee.
Yet her ankle was sprained, and the mud-caked high heels seemed glued to the ground, impossible to lift.
She could only remain slumped in the mud, letting the rain wash away her carefully applied makeup and reveal a pale, desperate face.
Inside the car, Shuichi noticed Masami's gaze.
"She saw us," he said, setting down his teacup. "Should we… lend them a hand? After all, she is your classmate."
"Help?"
Satsuki finally turned her head and glanced at the mud-covered girl outside.
"How should we help? Step out and offer her an umbrella? Or hand her a check?"
"Father, that would only insult her further."
Satsuki's voice carried no emotion.
"For her right now, being seen by us is the greatest punishment imaginable."
She withdrew her gaze and pressed the intercom button on the door armrest.
"Fujita, drive."
"Yes, Milady."
Fujita started the engine.
The V8 emitted a low, powerful rumble. The black sedan began to move, its tires rolling over the waterlogged road and sending up a fan-shaped spray.
The car did not approach the crowd. Instead, it traced an elegant arc and turned back toward the main road.
As it passed the puddle, although the splashed mud did not reach Masami, the rush of air caused her to close her eyes instinctively.
When she opened them again, she saw only the receding taillights.
The red lights stretched into two long ribbons through the rain and mist, like a mocking symbol.
"Dad…"
Masami clutched her father's soaked sleeve, her voice trembling.
"Are we… finished?"
Okura Masao held his daughter tightly and stared in the direction where the Saionji family's luxury car had vanished.
He recognized that vehicle. He knew exactly who sat inside.
Six months earlier, he might have rushed out to stop the car and beg Saionji Shuichi for help.
But now, looking at the mud beneath his feet and then at the spotless body of their sedan, the vast, suffocating gulf left him without even the courage to speak.
"It's all right… it's all right…"
Okura Masao murmured, as if comforting his daughter—or perhaps hypnotizing himself.
"As soon as the rain stops… as soon as the rain stops, everything will be fine…"
But the rain only grew heavier.
Cold water poured in from every direction, submerging the once-glorious father and daughter deeper into the desolate swamp of Chiba Prefecture.
Inside the car, Satsuki never looked back.
She turned another page of her book—a biography detailing the rise of the Morgan family.
The sound of the turning page rang clear in the quiet cabin.
"Father."
She spoke suddenly.
"Hmm?"
"Remember that look."
"Which one?"
"The look Okura Masami gave us just now."
Satsuki's finger traced lightly across the page.
"It was jealousy, resentment, and fear."
"The Okura family has paid billions in tuition for this lesson. We are auditors who spent not a single yen."
"Therefore, we must study it with the utmost seriousness."
She closed the book and gazed at the road ahead, which the wipers cleared only to blur again with fresh rain.
"Never allow yourself to fall into that situation."
"Never leave your fate to the weather."
Shuichi nodded. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the cold sweat that had formed on his forehead without his notice.
The scene had frightened him more than any horror film.
"Let us return to Tokyo," he said, his voice weary.
"I want a glass of hot sake."
"Very well."
Satsuki leaned back against the soft seat and closed her eyes.
Chopin's "Raindrop Prelude" played softly through the speakers.
The piano notes fell—elegant… and sorrowful.
This was the late autumn of 1986.
Some were drowning in the mud, while others listened to the rain in comfort and warmth.