October 28, 1989, 1:00 AM
Saionji Industries Headquarters, 14th floor — Financial Settlement Center
Most of the staff had already gone home. In the vast office, only a few emergency lights cast a faint white glow.
The central air conditioning still hummed with low-frequency cold air. Several industrial Ricoh copiers sat in standby, giving off the sharp scent of ozone and overheated toner.
By the window, a QUICK market terminal hadn't been powered down. On the dim green CRT screen, yesterday's final closing price hovered quietly:
****
That string of numbers—representing Japan's entire frenzy of paper wealth—glowed faintly in the dark.
But none of it mattered to the night-shift audit supervisor, Nakajima. To him, the flickering green light was just irritating.
Managing Director Endo stepped out of the private elevator at the end of the hall.
He looked awful tonight. His tie was loose and his usually perfect hair was disheveled. In his left hand he carried a cup of black coffee. In his right, an unmarked kraft paper file folder.
As he passed Nakajima's workstation, the pager in Endo's pocket suddenly buzzed with urgent, insistent vibrations.
Already exhausted from working overtime, Endo jerked in surprise. Hot coffee sloshed over the rim, splashing across his expensive suit cuff and the back of his hand.
"Hiss—damn it!"
The man who normally wouldn't flinch if a mountain collapsed in front of him actually cursed out loud. He fumbled for a handkerchief, but both hands were full.
In a panic, he slapped the file folder and what was left of the coffee onto the empty desk across from Nakajima.
Clutching his scalded hand, Endo yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his cuff. He shot Nakajima an irritated, pained look.
"Nakajima? You're still here?" Endo said through gritted teeth. "Go to the pantry and get me a wet towel. Or bring cold water to the restroom. Hurry!"
Without even checking his frantically buzzing pager, he turned and strode toward the restroom at the end of the hall, his footsteps unsteady on the anti-static carpet.
The sound faded, then disappeared around the corner.
Silence returned to the office.
Nakajima sat frozen in his swivel chair, every muscle tense.
He glanced toward the hall where Endo had vanished, then at the plain kraft folder on the desk. A few drops of coffee stained the edge.
It looked like trash someone had fished out of the shredder bin.
But this was something Managing Director Endo had been carrying personally.
Could it… be important?
As a mid-level supervisor in the finance department, Nakajima earned a generous salary. But last month, he'd gotten hooked on pachinko at an underground casino in Shinjuku and now owed loan sharks enough to bankrupt him.
An intelligence broker from Daiei Group had approached him a week ago. They'd offered a number he couldn't refuse. All he had to do was provide definitive proof of the Saionji family's cash flow problems.
He'd vaguely refused at the time. The broker left contact info, but Nakajima hadn't taken it seriously. He figured a man of his rank would never touch anything important.
But now… the opportunity had landed right in front of him.
Just once would be enough. Pay off the debt and I'll never touch this stuff again.
His breathing grew heavy.
This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance! Don't you want to be free of those debts? A voice screamed in his head.
Even if it's just ordinary invoices, it wouldn't take more than a few seconds to look, right?
Driven by impulse, he stood. His legs felt weak from nerves.
He didn't go to the pantry. He walked quickly to the desk, reached out with cold, sweaty hands, and untied the cotton string on the file folder.
He pulled out the documents.
Under the dim emergency light, his gaze raced across the pages.
Budget overrun application due to geological issues for the deep-sea caisson work on 'Saionji Tower' in Odaiba…
Skyrocketing heavy oil consumption bill for the 'Gokurakukan' resort in Hokkaido after winter set in…
Looking at the dense data, Nakajima felt his heart hammering against his ribs.
He'd worked in finance for years. He could tell at a glance that these receipts—stamped with the Saionji crest and anti-counterfeit watermarks—were 100% genuine.
The group… is the cash flow tight? Is this what those people want?
His vision blurred, but he forced himself to focus.
Whatever. They didn't say what they wanted. I'll just copy everything.
He grabbed the documents, hunched like a thief, and trotted toward the Ricoh copier in the corner.
Hum—
The machine's startup rumble sounded like thunder in the silent office.
The scanner emitted a harsh white light, passing over the glass and duplicating every confidential number on the page.
Nakajima bit his lower lip hard, eyes darting toward the hallway.
Cold sweat dripped from his chin onto the copier's plastic casing.
"Hurry… faster…" he begged silently.
If Endo got impatient in the restroom and came back, it was all over.
Every second felt like an eternity. He was sure Endo would step out of the hallway at any moment.
Finally, the three copies spat out.
Nakajima snatched them, folded them haphazardly, and shoved them into the inner pocket of his suit.
He stuffed the originals back into the coffee-stained folder as fast as he could, re-tied the string, and set it back exactly where it had been.
Without pausing for breath, he sprinted to the pantry. He tore a white towel from the rack, rinsed it under the cold tap, and wrung it out twice with shaking hands.
Clutching the wet towel, he stumbled toward the restroom.
He reached the corner just as Endo rounded it, still shaking his swollen, red hand, his face furious.
"Nakajima? How long does it take to get a towel!"
"Man—Managing Director! Your cold towel!" Nakajima stopped short, holding out the towel with both hands.
His voice shook from nerves and from running.
Endo snatched the towel and pressed it to his scalded hand. He frowned at Nakajima's sweaty, panting, disheveled state.
"That's it." Endo waved him off impatiently, walking past him toward the office. "Nothing else. Go home and rest."
"Y-yes… Managing Director, take care." Nakajima bowed deeply.
A drop of cold sweat fell from the tip of his nose to the anti-static carpet.
Watching Endo disappear from sight, Nakajima collapsed into his chair, drained.
D-did I… did I actually pull it off?
He touched the copies through his suit, still unable to believe it.
On the other side, the moment Endo left Nakajima's line of sight, the irritation and exhaustion vanished from his face.
He glanced back toward Nakajima through the wall.
Consider it recycling waste. Go ahead, take it to your master and claim your reward.
Of course the Saionji family knew Nakajima had been talking to people from Daiei.
Any manager with real access was on SIS—Saionji Intelligence Service—routine surveillance. Life trajectories, relationships, finances, frequent locations… all of it was processed systematically.
If an employee's behavior showed anomalies—like carrying massive debt—they went on the high-priority watch list.
They hadn't dealt with Nakajima yet because he still had value.
After all, some intelligence is more believable when people pay a high price for it, isn't it?
Perfect. Once he reports it, we can send someone to handle the aftermath.
Endo muttered to himself while pressing the cold towel to his burn.
The chill made the wound sting, and his face twisted slightly.
To make the act convincing, he'd actually scalded himself.
"Hiss… Speaking of which, can I file this as a work-related injury with the young lady?"
…
The next morning. Chiyoda Ward. Subway station exit.
The newsstand owner had just cut the plastic straps off a bundle of morning papers. The sharp smell of ink spread in the cool morning air.
Office workers rushing to work tossed down coins and grabbed copies of Nihon Keizai Shimbun.
When they saw the bold black headline on the front page, their hurried steps slowed in unison.
'The Price of Wonders: Is the Saionji Family's Cash Flow Under Pressure? Exclusive Disclosure of Massive Infrastructure Bills for Odaiba and Hokkaido'
The article listed the leaked data in detail. From the unit price of anti-seepage concrete to the tonnage of heavy oil burned by the climate control system.
The piece never made subjective attacks. It just used cold, hard numbers to paint a picture: a heavy-asset beast devouring cash flow.
In a street-corner coffee shop, several finance professionals in trench coats discussed the paper in low voices.
"No wonder Saionji Construction has been dumping those marginal land plots lately," said an analyst with glasses, stirring his coffee. His tone held a note of realization. "I thought they were pulling back. Now it looks like their cash flow is completely locked up by those two white-elephant projects. They can't take high-interest bank loans, so they're liquidating assets to plug the hole."
A colleague across from him took a deep drag of his cigarette.
"Yeah. A 500-meter tower in Odaiba, plus that glass dome in Hokkaido. The money those anti-human projects burn every day is unimaginable."
He tapped ash into a tray and sighed.
"The Saionji family has deep pockets, and they've made a fortune these last two years. But this kind of suicidal expansion? Even they can't handle it forever. The giant's finally winded."
"I bet they won't launch any big projects for a while. You think?"
Guided by some unseen hand, public opinion didn't swing to the extreme of 'Saionji is going bankrupt.' Instead, business elites reached a calmer consensus: the Saionji family was still massive, but they'd hit their expansion limit and were showing fatigue.
…
10:00 AM, the day the news broke. Saionji Industries HQ, 1st-floor press hall.
Magnesium flashes fired wildly, blending into a sea of white light.
Reporters from every major outlet packed the hall. Cameras and microphones pointed at the long table on the podium.
Kudo, head of Saionji Group PR, stood before the microphone, sweating heavily.
Due to the senior management's strict 'black box' information policy, Kudo had no idea this was a scheme orchestrated by Saionji Satsuki herself.
To him, top-secret financial data had really been stolen by an insider and sold to the press.
This was a serious security breach and a huge failure for his department.
So Kudo was genuinely furious and anxious right now.
Damn it! Don't let me find out who did this!
But as a senior executive trained by the Saionji Group, he buried that emotion beneath his crisp dark suit.
At the podium, his face was calm.
"Members of the press," Kudo's steady voice echoed through the hall. "The so-called 'exclusive disclosure' published by Nihon Keizai Shimbun this morning is a malicious fabrication taken out of context. On behalf of the group, I solemnly declare: Saionji Industries' financial situation is extremely healthy. Our cash flow is abundant and sufficient to support all strategic plans."
Cameras clicked faster.
"If finances are so healthy, why call an emergency press conference within two hours of the story breaking?" A weekly magazine reporter stood, tone mocking. "The data in the paper is accurate to the single yen. Minister Kudo, can you disclose actual Odaiba project expenditures to prove your innocence?"
Kudo's gaze turned cold. His jaw tightened.
"This press conference was called to thoroughly dispel these baseless, vicious rumors at the earliest opportunity. The group's reputation will not be tarnished by a deliberately fabricated farce."
"As for Odaiba's actual expenditures, that is a trade secret and cannot be disclosed."
He stared the reporter down and delivered the official refusal in clipped, measured tones.
Then he played his real card.
"Regarding this malicious rumor, the Group Security Department arrested a former Finance Department employee in the early hours of this morning. He stole and tampered with trade secrets due to a personal grudge. He has been handed over to the Metropolitan Police Department's Financial Crime Division."
Kudo picked up a legal document and displayed it to the media.
"At the same time, Saionji Group Legal has officially sent cease-and-desist letters to the relevant outlets. We will pursue all legal means to hold rumor-mongers fully accountable."
The flashes reached a crescendo.
Behind that blinding light, several veteran business reporters exchanged looks, their eyes showing tacit mockery.
To business elites, the most confident move against rumors is to have the CFO casually disclose partial accounts.
But Saionji's response—emergency presser, overnight arrest, rushed legal threats—this tight, panicked hardline PR told outsiders one thing: Saionji Group was weak right now.
…
At the same time. Akasaka Prince Hotel, top floor Royal Suite.
Yoshiaki Tsutsumi sat upright at a marble dining table in a dark gray custom suit.
He held a cup of black coffee. His eyes watched the live broadcast of the Saionji press conference on the TV.
On screen, Kudo's hands were crossed, his tone stern as he tried to stonewall reporters' questions.
Tsutsumi took a light sip. The bitter liquid slid down his throat.
He narrowed his eyes at the screen.
Too stiff. If they were truly confident, they'd laugh off rumors of this scale. No need to throw out a scapegoat, and no need to wave legal threats to silence people.
This watertight toughness looked like it was hiding something.
"This response is crude," Tsutsumi murmured.
He set the cup back on its saucer and leaned into the leather chair.
His fingers tapped the mahogany armrest as he ran through the inconsistencies.
Something's wrong.
That Saionji Satsuki—the monster she was on Wall Street and in real estate. If she were running things, even with a rotten Finance Department, she'd resolve a crisis elegantly, without leaving handles.
How could they produce such clumsy PR, so eager to cover things up?
Unless…
A sharp realization flashed in Tsutsumi's eyes.
The inside of Saionji Group is in chaos.
The burn rate of those two money pits in Odaiba and Hokkaido finally hit a nerve with the old guard.
Facing that bottomless infrastructure hole, the Old Kazoku elders—who cling to 'zero debt' and value face over their lives—must have panicked and bypassed the underage family head to take control.
Only those pedantic, conservative old men would use such rigid methods to hide the fact that the family's cash flow is tight.
"Shimada." Tsutsumi stopped tapping. "Tell me what the group has gathered. What are the results?"
Secretary Shimada, waiting respectfully, stepped forward and bowed. He laid a comprehensive intelligence summary on the marble table.
"Chairman. All intelligence has been cross-referenced and verified," Shimada said, voice low and clear.
"First: Per our contacts in the real estate trading hall, Saionji Construction was indeed dumping first-tier peripheral land plots a few days ago. Tough stance, but clearly eager to liquidate."
"Second: Through Seibu Group's building-materials and energy suppliers, we verified special concrete procurement for the Odaiba caissons and heavy oil use at the Hokkaido Gokurakukan. It basically matches this morning's leaked data. Margin of error under two percent."
Shimada flipped a page, revealing a surveillance photo. A handcuffed man with a look of despair was being led into a police vehicle.
"Third: Per Metropolitan Police sources, the arrested man is indeed a mid-level Saionji Finance manager. He also owed 40 million yen in gambling debts at an underground Shinjuku casino."
Tsutsumi listened quietly, eyes on the photo, assembling the fragments.
The frantic asset sales confirmed their thirst for cash.
The suppliers' real shipment data confirmed the terrifying burn rate of Odaiba and Hokkaido.
Add a desperate, real gambling-debt insider.
All the independent intel fit seamlessly with his earlier deduction, forming an airtight logical loop.
Just as expected. This multi-point leak could only be the work of those Old Kazoku elders—new to power, flustered by modern finance. To fill the capital hole from those two wonders, and to cling to their outdated 'zero debt' rule, they're carving off peripheral assets slice by slice.
In Tsutsumi's eyes, certainty and greed finally surfaced.
Could the cash from those peripheral plots really fill the deep-sea pit or heat Hokkaido's ice?
Impossible. Heavy-asset burn curves only rise exponentially. When the money from selling small plots burns out, to save face and keep those two machines running, they'll be forced into a corner.
Then, they'll have to carve off real core assets.
Tsutsumi stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the city. Sunlight fell on his shoulders. He felt the composure of an apex predator.
Only I—the king of real estate, the man who owns one-sixth of all land in Japan—can sustain century-defining projects on hard assets like land.
He turned to Shimada.
"How's the funding I requested?"
"Chairman, the hundred-billion-yen bridge loan from Dai-Ichi Kangyo Bank is in place. Internal group accounts have also completed top-level centralization," Shimada reported with a bow. "Ready at any time."
"Very good."
Tsutsumi walked back to his desk. His gaze fell on the map of Tokyo's core wards. His eyes roamed greedily over two coordinates: the 'Crystal Palace' in Ginza and the 'Pink Building' in Akasaka.
He reached out and gently rubbed his fingertips over those two locations, as if the priceless buildings were already in his palm.
His chin lifted. A curve of arrogance touched his mouth.
"Soon, the Saionji family will have to spit out the first tribute. And after that, there will be more."
This lion king, patrolling his territory, sat upright on a velvet throne.
Patiently waiting for the prey to serve him sweet red wine laced with deadly poison.