It was October in Tokyo, and the streets carried an unspeakable weariness.
Satsuki sat in the backseat, her gaze sweeping across Ginza Central Street through the tinted car windows.
Two old storefronts she remembered should still have been in business, but white canvas had already been pulled over their display windows. Handwritten banners reading "Thank you for your patronage · Liquidation sale" were plastered on the glass doors.
The specialty shop next door, which dealt mainly in imported wristwatches, still had its lights on, but the display tray in the window — once filled with forty pieces — was nearly half empty.
Farther down, an entire block's neon signs were at least twenty percent dimmer than when she had passed by last year. They weren't broken. The owners were simply cutting electricity costs.
Thanks to the economic "hard landing" orchestrated behind the scenes by a certain philanthropist, a large number of small and medium-sized enterprises had gone bankrupt. All of Japan had slipped into a downturn ahead of schedule.
Satsuki withdrew her gaze and looked down at the car's interior.
The young mistress was kindhearted. She could not bear to see such things.
She glanced at the fax spread across her lap. The first page bore the letterhead of S.A. Precision Optics GmbH, Frankfurt Office.
Weber's items from last night had already been handed off to Endo to implement. That was a scientist's perspective — precise, but limited to the optical line.
If that was all she could extract from a world-class geopolitical event like the reunification of East and West Germany, then she would not deserve the name Saionji.
The document in her hand covered a much larger board.
She had already worked through most of it last night. Now she flipped to the page she had not finished.
Buna-Werke. Buna Chemical.
It was the largest synthetic rubber and specialty chemical production base in East Germany, located in Schkopau, Saxony-Anhalt. Four thousand six hundred employees. Heavy losses on the books. The Trust Agency had already placed it on the "priority for sale" list.
Neither BASF nor Bayer from West Germany was interested — their own capacity was already in surplus.
But Satsuki wasn't after the synthetic rubber.
In Buna's fine chemical division, there was a high-purity reagent line built with investment from the East German military. The purity met electronic grade standards. It was the core solvent for photoresist.
She wrote a line in the margin: "Fold this into the Jena procurement plan for S.A. Precision Optics. Use 'job creation' as a condition. Budget cap: 20 million East German marks."
She turned to the fourth page.
Endo had attached a recent map of downtown Berlin. Three plots were highlighted — land quietly acquired last June under S.A.'s offshore trusts: the 60,000-square-meter "dead land" in the core of Potsdamer Platz, the northern section of Friedrichstraße, and a cluster of old warehouses in the Mitte district (see Chapter 172).
The note read: "With the formal reunification of East and West Germany, these plots have shifted from Cold War borderland to the physical city center of Berlin. Recommend reassessing strategic value."
Potsdamer Platz.
Right now it was likely still a weed-choked ruin. The Wall had fallen only a year ago, and they hadn't even finished repairing the streetlights.
But in ten years, Sony and Daimler-Benz would pour billions of marks into that ground to build Berlin's most prosperous commercial center.
She drew a light X on the map. Beside it, she wrote: "Hold and stabilize for now. Someone will come to negotiate with us soon."
One more item.
In the footer of the last page, Endo had added a line: "Uniqlo Europe submits expansion plan. Tadashi Yanai suggests pilot stores in Leipzig and Dresden. Rationale — 16 million East German consumers have just gained purchasing power in East German marks, but local retail infrastructure is almost nonexistent."
Satsuki's brows lifted slightly.
Yanai had a sharp nose for opportunity.
She approved the proposal on the first page with a single word: "Feasible."
She closed the folder and slid it into the briefcase beside her seat.
At that moment, Endo turned.
"Miss, we've arrived."
...
The car stopped smoothly in front of the S.A. Entertainment headquarters.
When Satsuki pushed the door open, the first thing she noticed was the new giant LED screen on the building's exterior wall.
The screen looped MV clips of their artists. When it cut to a close-up of a male singer playing guitar in the rain, the color saturation was a touch glaring.
Had this singer existed in the original timeline?
Her gaze lingered on the screen for a second before she looked away.
Itakura was already waiting at the entrance.
He wore a dark striped suit. The shoulders and cuffs were tailored a little too tight — as if he had gone for a custom fitting and missed the mark by a fraction. Still, he looked presentable. No one could tell he had once run a small appliance store.
Seeing Satsuki's door open, he sprang forward, almost trotting to greet her.
Two secretaries followed, each holding a stack of folders, their steps hurried.
"Miss! Welcome!"
Itakura bowed slightly, two centimeters deeper than usual.
"Mm." Satsuki nodded, her eyes scanning the thickness of the folders in the secretaries' hands.
"Let's go. Talk while we walk."
...
Itakura walked half a step ahead, holding a dark blue report booklet and flipping through it as he went.
"As of the beginning of this month, S.A. Entertainment has sixty-three signed acts."
His pace was deliberately controlled, half a beat slower than usual.
"Among them, eleven have debuted and achieved quarterly profitability. The top three by net profit are—" He flipped to a page marked with a yellow tab.
"First is Sachiko's karaoke guide tape series, with copyright revenue exceeding 420 million yen in a single quarter. Second is the band 'Backlight' (prototype 'B'z') with album sales and tour tickets totaling 180 million. Third is Yumi Nishimura's (prototype 'Imai Miki') TV commercial singing contracts, totaling 90 million."
Satsuki listened, her stride steady, eyes fixed down the hallway. She nodded slightly from time to time.
Itakura glanced at her profile and continued.
"One figure deserves special mention." He turned to a page boxed in red. "Royalty income from karaoke guide tapes officially exceeded record sales starting last quarter. The ratio is fifty-three to forty-seven."
Satsuki's steps paused for half a beat.
"Settlement cycle?"
"Forty-five days," Itakura answered immediately. "We've signed quarterly settlements with the six major national karaoke chains, but actual collection has been compressed to forty-five days. Twice as fast as the industry average of ninety days."
"Revenue split on TV commercial singing contracts?"
Itakura flipped through the document.
"Seventy-thirty. We get seventy percent."
"My bottom line is seventy-five."
Itakura's finger stilled on the page.
"...Yes. TBS and Fuji are still at seventy-thirty, and I'm pushing them. The new contract with Asahi TV has reached seventy-four." His voice dropped half a degree. "Before year-end, I'll get all stations above seventy-five."
Satsuki did not reply. She kept walking.
Itakura exhaled internally. The young miss hadn't pressed further, which meant his answer hadn't crossed a line.
"We've had another gain in the last six months." He sped up half a step, stopping at a glass partition with a rehearsal schedule posted on it. "After the downturn, several small and mid-tier agencies couldn't hold on. We took the chance to sign newcomers they let go."
He counted on his fingers.
"SunMusic laid off a batch of trainees. I pulled a male singer from them. His vocal range is excellent — his resonance in the low-to-mid register is top-tier among his peers.
Also, Stardust's Osaka branch shut down, and a female singer-songwriter was let go. She writes her own lyrics and music. Her demo was already near commercial quality. I signed her with a one-year base salary guarantee and full studio access."
He couldn't quite hide the pride in his voice.
"Contract terms and benefits follow company standard. No downgrades," he added. "These people need security right now. Give them that, and they'll work themselves to the bone."
Satsuki glanced at him. The smug, overweight man had learned a few things over the years.
She raised her hand and patted Itakura on the shoulder.
Seeing it, Itakura bent his knees slightly so her hand could reach.
"You've done very well, Itakura."
Satsuki patted his shoulder as she intended.
"I don't know what you like, so I'll give you 500 million in cash as a reward."
With that, she continued forward.
Itakura froze for a moment, then his smile widened.
"Miss, you have a keen eye for people. What I like most is Fukuzawa Yukichi..."
...
The soundproof doors lining the hallway were tightly closed.
But even with that level of material, certain frequencies couldn't be fully swallowed.
Muffled low end — kick drums or bass — passed through the panels and walls, transmitting as physical vibration. The soles of her feet felt numb.
Itakura pointed to the first door on the left.
"This room is a five-member male band signed in April, 'Twilight Signal' (prototype 'LUNA SEA'). The lead singer is the one I pulled from SunMusic. A&R's assessment is that if they have half a year to gel, they can debut next spring."
Satsuki tilted her head slightly to listen. The vocals inside were blurred, but the tone was solid, with a full mid-range.
Itakura walked a few steps forward and pointed to the room on the right.
"This is the girl from Osaka. Her name is Maki Matoba (prototype 'Maki Ohguro'). She's been locked in writing for three days. Last time she came out was because she was hungry..."
Satsuki didn't linger at those two doors.
She stopped at the second-to-last door at the end of the hall.
The sound from this room was entirely different.
Dense sixteenth-note kicks from the drum kit tangled with distorted electric guitar riffs — violent, fierce, carrying undisguised aggression.
Satsuki listened for three seconds.
Itakura leaned in.
"This is 'Blue Echo,'" he said, his tone more solemn. "The all-female rock band we signed during last year's year-end selection. Last month their new single debuted at number nineteen on the Oricon chart."
An all-female band.
Satsuki remembered. Itakura had mentioned them in his quarterly report, calling their commercial potential "extremely high" and their stage presence "rare among female bands."
Interesting.
Another band that hadn't existed in the original timeline.
She looked at Itakura.
Then she reached out and pushed open the soundproof door.