October 15, 1989.
[Nikkei Index: 35,480 points]
2:00 PM.
Richard, a senior Tokyo-based correspondent for The Wall Street Journal, walked along a boardwalk made of rot-resistant teak. It cut through a humid, artificial tropical rainforest.
The broad leaves rustled in an artificial breeze, and the air hung thick with sea salt and the coconut scent of sunscreen.
"The Japanese have absolutely gone mad," Richard muttered.
A thin layer of sweat beaded on his forehead. He unbuttoned his tweed suit to escape the unseasonal, stifling heat.
As the Nikkei index continued its relentless climb, the wealth of the Japanese had expanded beyond all reason. No longer satisfied with buying the world, they had begun building wonders.
Richard reached the end of the boardwalk and looked up at the main building. Shaped like an hourglass, the "Gokurakutenshu" truly seemed to reach from the earth to the sky.
From this angle, the building looked as if it were holding up the sky itself. Its massive scale filled his vision, creating a suffocating sense of physical pressure.
"Still, it is quite shocking..." he whispered to himself as he stepped toward the ground-floor entrance.
The entrance had none of the gaudy neon signs you'd expect from a casino. Instead, two heavy, four-meter-high soundproof doors were shut tight. Their surfaces were covered in deep black Italian calfskin.
As Richard approached, two waiters in dark red tailcoats stepped out from the shadows. Wearing pristine white gloves, they gripped the thick brass handles in perfect unison and pulled.
With a faint hiss from the hydraulic dampers, the doors—weighing hundreds of kilograms—swung open smoothly.
Richard nodded and stepped across the threshold.
The doors snapped shut behind him, instantly cutting off the sound of artificial waves and tourists splashing outside.
Beneath his feet lay a five-centimeter-thick handmade Persian wool carpet. Its deep red patterns stretched to the end of the hall. Every footstep was swallowed completely by the expensive fibers.
The tropical humidity vanished, replaced by an extremely dry, precise chill that dried the sweat on Richard's forehead within seconds.
He stood still and took a deep breath.
The air held a faint scent—a mix of citrus and the ozone freshness you smell after a thunderstorm.
Within thirty seconds, Richard noticed something unusual. His heart rate was quickening. A slight rush of excitement washed over him, and his focus became unnaturally sharp. The fatigue from his deadlines seemed to vanish.
"Too alert..." Richard muttered. This level of alertness, which defied his body's natural cycle, set off his reporter instincts.
He scanned the massive hall. The walls were paneled in dark wainscoting. There were no windows and no clocks anywhere.
A speaker array played slow-tempo cool jazz, filling the background silence with the lazy, lingering sound of a saxophone.
Richard sat at a roulette table covered in green velvet.
"Sir, would you like something?" a bartender in a black vest asked, keeping his voice low.
"Soda water with ice, thank you. And could you tell me the time? My watch seems to have stopped."
The bartender placed a flawless, transparent sphere of ice into a crystal glass and poured the water. Carbon dioxide bubbles burst against the ice with a faint rustling sound.
He pushed the glass toward Richard, his smile unchanged. "Sir, at Gokurakutenshu, time is measured by the rotations of the wheel. Have a pleasant stay."
Two meters to Richard's right, a flushed Japanese businessman slammed a glass onto the bar. His collar was open, his silk tie pulled askew, and he reeked of high-end cologne and too much whiskey.
The man grabbed a mountain of custom chips. Several million yen slipped through his fingers and fell silently onto the thick carpet. He didn't care. He slammed the rest onto the red betting zone.
"Buy in! All in!"
Richard noted the man's bloodshot eyes and dark stubble. He had likely been there for over twelve hours, yet he showed no sign of yawning.
The dealer spun the brass wheel, and the ivory ball clattered across the metal track. It slowed, skipped, and fell into a black slot.
The chips on red were ruthlessly swept away by a transparent acrylic rake.
The businessman stared blankly for a second, then slapped the table so hard his palm turned bright red. He noticed Richard's gaze and began to brag in broken English with a heavy Kansai accent.
"American! What you looking at? The money I just lost, I make it back in one day from land I buy in Minato! In today's Japan, gold coins flow in the streets!"
Richard looked at the tireless, frenzied man, then at the flawless air vents overhead.
It was a classic casino tactic: high-frequency air purification, specially formulated fragrances, and the removal of all clocks to keep the brain hyper-aroused.
This hall was a patient pump. It didn't need to rob the guests—it just waited for them to empty themselves.
He pushed back his stool and left.
Richard stepped onto the Italian Carrara marble staircase, polished to a mirror finish. As he climbed, the casino fragrance faded, replaced by the rich aroma of searing meat.
The second floor was a circular cluster of restaurants. In the center, chefs with half-meter knives were breaking down a 300-pound bluefin tuna. Ice shards scattered under the spotlights.
Richard took a seat at a teppanyaki bar. "Kobe beef and sea urchin," he ordered. The prices were staggering, but he knew the office would reimburse him.
A man next to him was eating raw beef covered in gold leaf. "Ten thousand yen a bite!" the man bragged. "Gokurakutenshu really has some pull."
Richard offered a polite nod, but his gaze drifted to a half-open door in the kitchen. Stacked there were wooden crates with a clear black logo: [S-Farm].
Richard's hand paused. He knew the Saionji corporate structure. S-Farm was their own supply chain. The "luxury" ingredients were far cheaper than they appeared to the guests.
He finished his meal and took the transparent panoramic elevator in the atrium. As the car rose toward the sixth floor, the ecosystem of desire unfolded like a scroll.
The third and fourth floors were a circular theater—a Roman Colosseum of entertainment. As the elevator passed, Richard saw the same businessman from the roulette table sitting in a velvet box. The man grabbed a handful of high-denomination chips and scattered them like rain over the Broadway troupe below. The actors stopped mid-song to bow deeply toward the box.
On the fifth floor, the doors opened briefly, releasing the scent of rose oil and animal musk. To the left, wealthy women were being covered in 24K gold leaf. To the right, disgruntled gamblers soothed their nerves by playing with Bengal tiger cubs wearing gold chains.
Finally, the elevator reached the sixth floor. Richard stepped onto the carpeted corridor lined with famous paintings. At the end was a small auction hall co-branded with Sotheby's. Through the velvet doors, he heard the auctioneer's provocative calls and the strike of the gavel.
The wealthy who had satisfied their appetites downstairs were now bidding fortunes on Impressionist paintings, desperate to use European art to wash away the "nouveau riche" label.
Richard closed his notebook. He didn't need to write any more.
The ground floor extracted greed. The middle floors extracted lust. The top floor extracted vanity.
No matter how much wealth was overflowing from a guest's pocket, Satsuki had designed a floor specifically to empty it.
He tucked his pen away and walked toward the exit.
Within this fragile, indestructible barrier, human desire was being released without restraint, accompanied by the endless clinking of gold coins.