September 1987, Shibuya.
On the slope of Koen-dori, the zelkova trees had begun to turn yellow, yet the street's vitality remained undiminished. Shibuya had always been synonymous with youth and consumption. The giant PARCO sign glittered under the autumn sun, while the windows of Seibu Department Store displayed Rei Kawakubo's latest deconstructivist coats. College students dressed in DC Brands strutted through the crowd like peacocks, their padded shoulders broad, Montblanc cigarettes held between their fingers as they debated which disco to visit that night or where to ski the following weekend.
The air was thick with the mingled scents of expensive perfume, car exhaust, and restless hormones—the unmistakable aroma of money being set ablaze.
Seibu Department Store, Shibuya Branch, First Floor.
The prime corner space, once occupied by an established Italian leather goods brand, now belonged to a new tenant. There was no noisy fanfare, no vulgar display of opening flower baskets. Behind the vast floor-to-ceiling glass windows lay a space of breathtaking austerity.
Architect Ando had justified his substantial fee. Rejecting the marble-heavy ostentation popular among the newly rich, he had chosen instead large tawny mirrors, aged brass shelving, and deep gray velvet carpets. The lighting was deliberately dim, with precise spotlights illuminating each display as though the items were rare museum treasures.
At the entrance hung only a small, brushed-copper plaque:
S-Collection
The Saionji family's new brand.
"Welcome."
The clerks wore impeccably tailored black uniforms and pristine white cotton gloves. Their smiles were polite and restrained, carrying the quiet dignity of a true high-end boutique.
A young college couple stepped inside. The boy sported a Ralph Lauren polo with the collar popped and his hair spiked with gel. The girl wore the popular "Seiko-chan" cut and carried a Louis Vuitton bucket bag. The moment they crossed the threshold, they instinctively softened their footsteps, overwhelmed by the store's aura.
Behind them, a clerk gently closed the door and placed a discreet "Now Serving" sign outside, sealing their retreat. The carpet was so thick it felt like walking on clouds, and the air carried a faint, refined fragrance reminiscent of burning sandalwood.
"What… what brand is this? I've never seen it before," the girl whispered, her gaze drawn to a red crocodile-skin handbag displayed alone inside a crystal case. It gleamed seductively under the lights. She leaned closer and glanced at the small price tag.
¥580,000.
Five hundred and eighty thousand yen.
She snatched her hand back and stuck out her tongue. "So expensive… but it's beautiful. Is it imported from Italy?"
The boy also peered at it, his Adam's apple bobbing. That sum was more than half a year's part-time wages or two months of his family allowance. College students in this era spent freely to impress, yet even he found the figure daunting.
"Cough… it's just all right," he muttered, feigning nonchalance as he looked away, embarrassed that his feet had somehow carried him into such an intimidatingly expensive store.
"This leather is too delicate for you anyway. Let's look at something else."
They circled the shop. The displays were sparse, each piece given ample space. A Hermès-style silk scarf: ¥120,000. A logo-less niche perfume: ¥80,000. A hand-stitched leather jacket: ¥350,000. Sweat began to form on the boy's forehead.
He had brought his girlfriend inside to show off his eye for "trendy brands," but now it felt like he had stumbled into a luxurious trap. Leaving empty-handed would not exactly shame him in front of her, yet it would sting his pride.
Just as he searched for an excuse to escape, his eyes fell on a long brass display stand in the center of the store. There, a stack of plain white T-shirts lay neatly folded. No flashy patterns, no oversized prints—only a tiny, almost invisible "S" embroidered on the left chest with matching silk thread.
Minimalist. Austere. Distinctive.
Set against the surrounding items priced in the hundreds of thousands, these simple white shirts appeared exceptionally refined and pure.
The boy approached and touched one. The fabric felt exquisite—thick, soft, and as smooth as cream. He lifted the price tag held down by a small brass weight.
¥30,000.
Thirty thousand yen.
Under normal circumstances, that would have been an outrageous sum for a T-shirt. Yet after the optic assault of the ¥580,000 handbag, the figure suddenly seemed almost friendly… even reasonable.
"Hey, Yui, look at this," he called, motioning her over. "This T-shirt is nice. The design feels grand, and the cut is unique. It's a bit like… Yohji Yamamoto's style."
In truth, he knew nothing about tailoring; he simply knew he could afford this price and still exit the store with dignity.
"Oh, you're right," the girl replied, stroking the fabric while taking in the opulent surroundings. "For a brand to secure the first floor of Seibu Department Store, it must be quite prestigious. Thirty thousand… doesn't seem too bad, does it?"
"Of course not!" the boy said, brightening at once. "This is what they call quiet luxury. Only those in the know wear pieces without big logos."
He snapped his fingers and summoned a clerk. "I'll take two—one for me and one for my girlfriend. Sizes M and S, please."
"Certainly, sir. You have excellent taste."
The clerk approached with a professional smile and lifted the shirts with gloved hands. What followed dismantled the couple's last psychological defenses.
Instead of simply bagging the garments, the clerk produced two heavy, rigid boxes wrapped in black specialty paper. The shirts were carefully layered in tissue, lightly misted with the store's signature fragrance, and placed inside. The lids closed with a satisfying, high-quality click. Finally, the boxes were slipped into a thick paper carrier embossed with a gold "S-Collection" logo, its handles fashioned from silk.
The packaging alone likely cost more than the shirts themselves.
Yet to the boy, these were not mere clothes. They were ceremony. They were the dignity he had purchased for thirty thousand yen amid Shibuya's vanity fair.
"Charge it," he said smoothly, producing a Diners Club card.
*Beep.*
Transaction complete.
Carrying the large paper bag that smelled of refined perfume, the couple walked out with their heads held high. At that moment, they felt like the most fashionable people on the street.
On the second floor, overlooking the entire first-floor atrium, Shuichi and Satsuki stood by the railing, watching the pair depart. Shuichi held the latest sales report, his expression complex.
"Fifty sold in one afternoon."
He stared at the figure, almost incredulous. "One and a half million yen… just from those T-shirts?"
As the Saionji family's original business had been textiles, Shuichi knew the true cost all too well. These were slightly upgraded products from the Takahashi factory in Shanghai, made with long-staple cotton from Xinjiang. The quality surpassed ordinary Japanese cotton, yet even with labor and shipping, the landed cost barely exceeded three hundred yen.
From three hundred to thirty thousand.
A hundredfold markup.
"Isn't this simply robbery?" Shuichi whispered, as though afraid the customers below might overhear.
"Robbery?" Satsuki leaned against the railing, sipping her freshly squeezed pomegranate juice—the "red wine" she favored. "How could robbery yield such returns?"
"Father, do you think that boy was buying cotton?"
"What else could it be?"
"No," Satsuki said, shaking her head gently. "He was buying the confidence that comes from having shopped on the first floor of Seibu Department Store. He bought the exquisite packaging, the clerk's compliment of 'excellent taste,' and the envious glances he would receive when he stepped back onto the street."
"The cotton is merely the carrier."
"In this era, the intrinsic value of materials has been stripped away. People consume symbols, class, and the illusion of belonging to high society."
She pointed to the now-empty counter where the two T-shirts had stood moments earlier. "We sold him an illusion and charged him thirty thousand yen for it. Quite fair, really."
Shuichi sighed. "Is this the 'anchoring effect' you mentioned? Using those hundreds-of-thousands-yen items as foils to make the thirty-thousand-yen T-shirts seem like a bargain?"
"Precisely."
Satsuki took another sip, her gaze steady. "The Seibu Department Store location itself is the greatest anchor. As long as you open here, even ordinary goods can command the price of gold."
"And this is only the first step."
Her eyes sharpened. "Father, have we recorded the customer data?"
"Yes. They all signed up for membership cards."
"Good."
Satsuki looked down at the bustling crowd below. "These people who are willing to spend thirty thousand yen on a T-shirt today will become our future seed users. Over the next three years, we will embed the 'S' logo deeply in their minds, associating it with concepts of high-end fashion and the prestige of Seibu Department Store. This is the primitive accumulation of brand equity."
Shuichi seemed to grasp the idea, yet looked even more puzzled. "And afterward? You plan to raise the prices later?"
"No."
Satsuki smiled, her expression radiant. "Wait three years. When the stock market crashes and real estate values are halved. When that boy graduates but cannot find work. When that girl's designer bags have all been pawned for cash."
"When they stand on the street with only a few hundred yen in their pockets, yet still crave that feeling of respect and careful presentation—we will open the warehouse in Chiba."
"We will sell them the exact same T-shirts, with the same cut and the same logo, for three hundred yen."
"At that moment," Satsuki's voice was soft, yet it struck Shuichi like a hammer, "we will no longer be their luxury. We will be their savior. We will become the last shred of dignity they can grasp in that bleak era of depression."
A chill ran down Shuichi's spine as he studied his daughter's youthful profile. This was not merely business. It was a meticulously laid trap—a grand scheme spanning an economic cycle, first harvesting vanity, then harvesting poverty.
After hearing her explanation, he suddenly understood how much profit he had overlooked before. No matter how poor someone might become, as long as they were alive, they still possessed value.
"A Trojan horse…" Shuichi murmured.
That paper bag bearing the "S" was the Trojan horse. It was entering the city now filled with expensive illusions. When the night grew still and the bubble finally burst, the army of affordable goods hidden within would pour out and claim the entire market.
"Let's go, Father," Satsuki said, setting her empty glass down. "I've seen enough of the performance. Since the Seibu Group has kindly lent us this stage, we must play our part to the fullest."
"Inform Mr. Ando to elevate the renovation standards for the Ikebukuro store by another level. And try to secure a few more licenses from European luxury brands. You may tell them the storefronts at the 'Crystal Palace' are negotiable."
"I want everyone to feel that S-Collection is an even more aloof aristocrat than Chanel."
The two turned to leave. Downstairs, another couple entered the store. A girl's delighted voice drifted up faintly:
"Wow! This is only thirty thousand? What a bargain!"
It was the most beautiful, and most ironic, sound on the eve of the bubble's collapse.
In a quiet corner of the store, on a newly installed display rack, lay several elegantly printed flyers previewing a new entertainment project from S.A. Entertainment—the "Karaoke Box."
A line of small text read:
"Hear your true voice here."