novelraw Chapter 208: 18.7%! Midnight Diner Ratings! An Unstoppable Force!
Chapter 208: 18.7%! Midnight Diner Ratings! An Unstoppable Force!
Tokyo City TV. Top-floor conference room.
The heavy mahogany table seemed to have absorbed the gloom of failure, its red surface now looking oppressively dark.
Executive Deputy Station Chief Takahashi Kazuo's face was stone. He slammed both palms on the table — a single muffled bang that froze the air solid.
His eyes swept across the three directors seated opposite — Watanabe, Fujisawa, and Nomura — then landed on the fidgeting, ashen-faced idol lead Kamiki Shunsuke and his manager beside them.
"Ten point seven percent!" Takahashi's voice was an ice pick, every syllable dripping frost. He held up the freshly received ratings report, teeth practically grinding. "Look! All of you — open your damn eyes and look! This is the premiere result of Minamijima Afu and His Beloved Dog — the show we spent months preparing, the show we pinned all our hopes on!"
Director Nomura attempted to speak: "Takahashi-san, this is only the premiere. Audiences need time to adjust to our style—"
"Adjust?" Takahashi cut him off with a near-roar. "Then explain to me: what about TV Tokyo's Midnight Diner?! Eighteen point nine percent! EIGHTEEN POINT NINE! In the sub-prime slot! Higher than the prime-time First Vassal Under the Lord! Theirs is a manga adaptation! And what are we? We're supposed to be an exclusive, original flagship drama! How much did we invest? How much did we spend on promotion? How many resources did Kirin Group pour into propping up your Kamiki Shunsuke?! Well?!"
Kamiki Shunsuke visibly flinched at being singled out, shooting a pleading look at his manager.
The manager scrambled to interject: "Executive Takahashi, this result is actually quite good for a brand-new station with a brand-new show, especially given the enthusiastic response among young female viewers—"
"Enthusiastic response among young females?" Takahashi scoffed, looking at the manager as though examining an imbecile. "Do you have any idea how much buzz Midnight Diner is generating among young people? How many of them are even talking about our show? About Kamiki Shunsuke's collection of blank expressions? 'Enthusiastic response' is worth a measly 10.7%? Use your toes to calculate how far behind we are!"Director Fujisawa cleared his throat, his voice somewhat hollow: "Executive Takahashi, please calm down. Midnight Diner... they had a manga foundation after all. An enormous readership that directly converted into viewership — that's an inherent advantage." Even as he said it, he knew how feeble it sounded.
Director Watanabe immediately seized the lifeline, nodding vigorously: "Fujisawa's right! Takahashi-san, that's the key! That 18.9% — more than half of it is manga-driven hype! They've barely even developed their story. Viewers are just riding the novelty!"
Nomura rushed to add: "Exactly! We're original — our plot tension needs time to build! Staying power! Our ratings will definitely show staying power! Audiences can't stay hooked forever on a manga adaptation gimmick!"
Script consultant Kobayashi muttered from the side: "But... our plot didn't even establish itself from the start..." His voice was small, but Takahashi caught it.
Takahashi whipped toward him: "Kobayashi! You think there's a problem too?" His eyes could have drawn blood.
Kobayashi jolted, frantically waving his hands: "No, no! What I mean is... the opening, well, you need to set up the background... the pacing was a slow burn, but the conflict will absolutely ramp up later! Later! Later is where we hit our stride!"
Kamiki Shunsuke mustered his courage, defending himself with a touch of grievance: "Executive Takahashi, I feel my acting was quite committed! My fans all say I captured Afu's gentleness and resilience perfectly!"
Takahashi stared at him, so angry he nearly laughed: "Committed? Resilient? You acted like a wooden plank! Even the dog showed more life than you! Can your fans prop up a TV station's ratings? Can they help Mayor Tanaka win the election?!"
The mention of Mayor Tanaka Mikami drained the last color from Takahashi's face. He deflated like a punctured balloon back into his chair.
He pressed a hand to his forehead, voice heavy with exhaustion and fear: "The real question is how I explain this to Mayor Tanaka. Carrying this humiliating ratings report? Telling him our carefully prepared trump card got demolished in the sub-prime slot by a casually produced manga adaptation? That our promotional offensive became a joke?"
Watanabe quickly suggested: "We can emphasize our platform fundamentals! As a new station, our audience base is still in the growth phase — you can't just look at first-episode absolutes!"
Fujisawa jumped in: "Right! Didn't the analysis report say we have strong reception in specific demographics? We can highlight that!"
Nomura chimed in: "And the Greater Tokyo Faction's ideology — our drama plants those seeds gradually. That's another key to our staying power! Different from those fast-food manga adaptations!"
Takahashi raised his head, eyes sweeping across their babbling justifications. Words like "staying power," "specific demographics," "platform fundamentals," and "ideological penetration" buzzed in his ears.
He knew these were reasons. But only reasons.
As a bureaucrat parachuted in from the publicity department, he wasn't actually well-versed in television production or audience psychology.
All he could do now was pin his hopes on these so-called professionals' judgment.
He waved his hand wearily: "Staying power... I hope you're right about this staying power. I don't care what justifications you use — stabilize the ratings! Absolutely! We absolutely cannot drop further! And we especially cannot let Midnight Diner widen the gap! As for how to report to the Mayor... I'll have to go with your explanations for now. But remember — that 'staying power' you just promised — if it doesn't materialize..."
Takahashi left his final sentence unfinished, but the chill in his tone sent ice straight up every spine in the room.
The meeting adjourned. Everyone filed out. Only Takahashi remained in the conference room.
He stared at the two ratings reports on the table. That blazing 18.9% was like a giant palm, slapping Tokyo City TV across the face — and slapping his personal career aspirations right along with it.
He hesitated, agitated, unsure how to tell Mayor Tanaka the disappointing numbers and the "staying power" rhetoric that even he didn't entirely believe.
But a report had to be made.
The message could be delivered diplomatically.
Blame could be redirected.
But in the eyes of people in politics, not reporting signaled disloyalty and dishonesty.
Takahashi Kazuo understood the calculus well enough.
So he set down the dismal Minamijima Afu ratings report and heavily picked up the phone.
"Ring... ring... ring—"
The dial tone pulsed through the oppressive conference room with piercing clarity.
"Hello?" The call connected.
Takahashi's voice was taut: "Hello? It's me, Takahashi. My sincerest apologies for disturbing you, Mayor Tanaka."
Mayor Tanaka Mikami's voice came from the other end, unexpectedly level: "Ah, Takahashi-san. This is about the Minamijima premiere results, yes?"
Takahashi froze. His prepared apology stuck in his throat. "Yes! The rating is... ten point seven percent. TV Tokyo's Midnight Diner in the sub-prime slot... achieved eighteen point nine percent. It's truly... truly disgraceful! Our work fell short. We've failed your expectations!"
Tanaka Mikami chuckled — almost inaudibly: "Ha ha... Takahashi-san, you're too hard on yourself. Good work."
Takahashi was completely stunned. This wasn't the anticipated fury: "Mr. Mayor? What do you mean...?"
Tanaka Mikami spoke at his leisure: "This is an entirely new station, an entirely new channel, an entirely new production team... and we achieved these numbers under the direct fire of TV Tokyo — that established juggernaut. Ten point seven? Well... it's not great, but for a 'rookie' in its infancy facing a powerful adversary, it passes."
Takahashi could barely believe his ears: "It... passes? But TV Tokyo's—"
Tanaka Mikami cut him off: "I know! Midnight Diner is on fire — 18.9%, a terrifying number. But so what? Takahashi-san, think long term. Don't be blinded by one battle's outcome. What matters now isn't beating them — it's keeping Tokyo City TV alive! Establishing a foothold! Making our voice heard!"
Takahashi's gratitude welled up, his voice trembling slightly: "Yes! Understood! We will learn from this, redouble our efforts, and never let TV Tokyo crush us! We will create better works to repay your trust!"
Tanaka Mikami nodded faintly: "Mm, good. Maintain that fighting spirit. One set of ratings doesn't define everything. The key is sustained presence, sustained delivery of our Greater Tokyo Faction's message. I believe in your abilities. That's all then. Keep it up."
Takahashi answered with fervor: "Yes! Thank you so much for your understanding and support! Please rest assured, we will absolutely—"
Tanaka Mikami's flat voice cut him off, tinged with fatigue: "Mm. Hang up."
Takahashi immediately responded with deference: "Yes, sir! Apologies for the disturbance!"
Takahashi gently set down the receiver. The clouds lifted from his face entirely, replaced by the warmth of being understood, by renewed determination — even tinged with guilty shame over his earlier self-recrimination.
But inside the Mayor's office in Tokyo City, the moment Tanaka Mikami set down the receiver, his face twisted from "gracious tolerance" into a pre-storm thunderhead.
He slammed the heavy black receiver back onto the cradle with a resounding crash — hard enough to make the entire phone jump. "Bakayaro!"
He shot to his feet, his tall frame pacing agitatedly behind the massive desk, expensive Italian leather shoes grinding heavily against the wooden floor.
Tanaka Mikami snarled into the empty office: "Ten point seven! 'Passes'?! Passes my ass! Dog-shit ratings! Takahashi, that useless waste! Sato Tokugawa, that moron! And those so-called 'renowned directors'! Every last one of them — WORTHLESS!"
He snatched the latest public opinion survey from the desk, flipping roughly to the approval ratings page. His eyes locked onto the red figure near 73%. His heaving chest only slightly calmed, but the fire in his eyes burned undiminished.
Tanaka Mikami sneered — self-satisfaction mixed with forced consolation over the failure: "Hmph... at least those foolish citizens know which side their bread is buttered on. See that? THAT's what matters! Whoever brings them benefits — that's who they support!"
He picked up the report, jabbing his finger at the equally soaring approval ratings next to "land price increase satisfaction," his voice ringing with conviction: "Housing! It's all about housing! Land prices! Property values! THAT's Tokyo's heart! THAT's what keeps citizens obedient! Let them see their assets appreciating every day, and they'll be happy as clams — as loyal as dogs rallying behind you! Culture? Ideology? Bullshit! What's more real than the wealth effect of rising property values?!"
He seemed to have found absolute truth. His emotions stabilized somewhat — but at the thought of Shimazu Yoshihiro and TV Tokyo's maneuvers, his face darkened with malice and contempt.
Tanaka Mikami spat dismissively: "That old fox Shimazu, faking illness and running away? Hmph! Thinks he can turn the tide with some clever tricks from that greenhorn Nohara Hiroshi and a bit of rabble-rousing propaganda? Pure delusion!"
"Knock knock knock—"
Just then, Secretary Sai cautiously knocked and entered with a document requiring signature.
Having overheard the Mayor's furious tirade, Sai chose his words carefully: "Mr. Mayor, the latest district-level public land price reports show an average increase of 1.5% over last month. This is—"
Tanaka Mikami snatched the report, scanned it, and waved impatiently: "Fine! I know! Rising! They must keep rising! Tell the Housing and Construction Office — remove those restrictions! Let the market heat up more! Shimazu's people want to propagandize? Let them propagandize!"
He slapped the land price report down beside the opinion survey, both palms braced on the desk, his gaze sharp and brimming with the need to control.
Tanaka Mikami's voice dripped with contempt and certainty: "Propaganda? Slogans? Can you eat slogans? Can you spend slogans? Can slogans make citizens' pockets swell with paper wealth? Shimazu's playbook is nothing but a penniless intellectual's con on the common folk! All we need to do is keep pushing real land and property prices higher — make every citizen 'feel' richer — and they'll automatically rally behind me, Tanaka Mikami! THAT's real public opinion! Shimazu doesn't understand it, and he never will!"
Secretary Sai kept his head respectfully lowered, not daring to add a word.
Tanaka Mikami's gaze swept across both reports, finally settling on the towering approval rating. Some measure of sovereign composure returned.
"Go. Tell Kashiwako in the News and Publicity Department — blast the announced land price increases across all city news broadcasts, especially for those hot 'model districts.' The headline should be loud and clear: 'Tokyo's Fortune, the Foundation of the People's Wealth!' I want every citizen in Tokyo discussing how much their house appreciated over dinner tonight!"
Secretary Sai responded instantly: "Yes, sir! Right away!"
Sai retreated swiftly from the office.
Silence reclaimed the room.
Tanaka Mikami sank back into his leather chair, closed his eyes, and let his fingers tap unconsciously against the desktop — seemingly savoring the illusory yet potent security of his approval numbers. But beneath his eyelids, the embers of fury over Takahashi and the pathetic Minamijima Afu ratings still smoldered.
He murmured to himself, a thread of cruelty woven through: "Useless fools... lucky this time didn't cause me too much damage. If they botch it again... hmph!"
...
Sakata Nobuhiko's office swirled with cigarette smoke, yet nothing could conceal the genuine smile on his face.
Sunlight poured through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, setting this de facto helmsman of TV Tokyo's silver hair aglow. The cigar between his fingers was half-consumed, its rich aroma mingling with the subtle astringency of premium black tea to form a fragrance called "power."
"Midnight Diner's latest episode: 18.9%." Sakata gently pushed a document to the center of the table, his gaze warmly sweeping across the three capable lieutenants before him — the mountain-steady Nohara Hiroshi, the sharp and efficient Asumi, and Takada Toshihide, who had now sheathed all his edges.
"An outstanding result, Nohara-kun. In that time slot, you've created yet another miracle."
Nohara Hiroshi inclined his head slightly, his expression calm as though listening to news about someone else entirely: "It's the effort of the entire team, and the opportunity you and the senior leadership gave us."
His humility bore no trace of artifice — just the statement of an objective fact.
Takada Toshihide's eyes carried genuine emotion: "It truly is remarkable. Several producers under me have studied your show. They all say they can't replicate it. That feeling of everyday warmth, that perfectly calibrated distance between people — it can't be imitated through technique alone."
Asumi nodded in agreement, his voice soft but powerful: "The most important thing is that it gave people who haven't gone home yet in the deep of night a moment of warmth. This has transcended what a television program can do. It's become a social phenomenon. Nohara-kun, you did it."
"Alright." Sakata smiled and waved his hand, cutting short the mini commendation ceremony. He ground out his cigar in the crystal ashtray, his expression turning serious.
The air in the office seemed to gain weight.
"Congratulations end here. Next comes something more important — something that requires not just the Production Bureau, but our entire TV Tokyo, to mobilize fully."
He paused, his gaze sharpening as it moved across each of the three.
"Starting with the next broadcast cycle, every program in prime time and sub-prime time must begin building momentum for President Shimazu's campaign. This applies not only to your Midnight Diner, Nohara-kun, but to you two as well." He looked at Takada and Asumi. "Every program under your supervision — dramas, variety shows, animation — must incorporate appropriate campaign messaging."
Takada Toshihide responded with immediate seriousness: "Naturally. The President's agenda is TV Tokyo's top priority. However, Bureau Chief — the messaging scope and intensity need a unified standard."
"Exactly." Asumi followed up. "News and current affairs shows can integrate directly. But for dramas and variety shows, clumsy insertion could alienate audiences and backfire."
Sakata nodded approvingly — he valued precisely this kind of professional insight. His gaze settled on Nohara Hiroshi.
"That's exactly why I called you all here. We're not doing crude, slogan-driven advertising. The concept Nohara-kun proposed yesterday — I find it extremely valuable and highly actionable."
Nohara Hiroshi met his gaze calmly, saying nothing, waiting.
"Information Cocoon." Sakata enunciated the four syllables slowly, as though savoring their profound implications. "What we need to do is custom-build the 'cocoon' that each audience segment is most willing to accept — then weave the messages we want to deliver into it, like silk threads, imperceptibly."
He turned to Takada and Asumi, voice intensifying: "Get your people moving immediately. Conduct audience profiling for all of our programs. Who watches Kasou Taishou? Housewives. Parent-child viewers. So the campaign spots within the show should emphasize President Shimazu's approachable image — family values, community building."
Takada Toshihide grasped it instantly: "Understood. Late-night anime viewers are mostly young people — progressive, full of aspirations but also uncertainty. The content we push to them should highlight President Shimazu's reform agenda — economic revitalization, creating opportunities for the young."
Asumi kept pace: "As for female viewers who watch romance and family dramas — they're more emotional, more concerned with social safety and welfare. We can produce soft promotional shorts about how President Shimazu helps vulnerable communities and advances women's social standing. Use emotional resonance to win their hearts."
"Exactly right!" Sakata slapped the table with satisfaction. "That's the approach! We transform campaign content into part of the programming — into stories audiences find interesting — into a piece of their daily lives. Not a jarring commercial blocking their view."
He turned back to Nohara Hiroshi: "Nohara-kun, you conceived this theory. I'd like you to guide the overall direction of its execution. You're the person at this station who best understands audience psychology."
Nohara Hiroshi finally spoke, his voice steady as ever: "What you're saying, Bureau Chief, is that we need to establish a cross-departmental 'Campaign Content Strategy Task Force,' co-led by myself, Deputy Director Takada, and Deputy Director Asumi — integrating promotional resources across all programs to develop differentiated strategies and specific messaging?"
"Just as sharp as ever." Sakata smiled. "I'll personally chair the task force. You three serve as vice-chairs. Immediately pull the sharpest people from the Production Bureau, News Bureau, and Programming Bureau. I want the first detailed execution plan in three days."
"Understood."
"Understood."
"Understood."
All three responded in unison, faces grave. This was no longer an ordinary programming meeting — it was a full pre-battle mobilization for the station's future and a critical election. Within this office, a war without bullets had officially begun.
After a brief silence, Nohara Hiroshi raised a key question: "Bureau Chief, when exactly is the election scheduled?"
Sakata picked up his tea cup, blew gently on the floating leaves, and said unhurriedly: "Based on the current negotiations between all parties, it should be in the second half of the year. The actual voting day will most likely fall in late September or early October."
Nohara Hiroshi calculated silently — from now to September, over half a year remained.
"The timeline is comfortable," he said. "Using the 'Information Cocoon' model we discussed — sustained, high-intensity, multi-layered, multi-angle information coverage over six months or more — we can construct a highly three-dimensional and extremely favorable image of President Shimazu in the minds of most television viewers. This kind of gradual, subconscious influence is far more effective than any last-minute campaign blitz."
Takada Toshihide agreed wholeheartedly: "Exactly. By the time the election formally begins, many voters won't even be able to explain why they support President Shimazu. They'll simply feel that this person is familiar, trustworthy, that everything he says makes sense. Our messaging will have internalized itself into their own convictions."
"That is propaganda's highest form." Asumi concluded, excitement glinting in his eyes.
For any media professional, participating in and leading a persuasion engineering project of this scale was itself an immensely challenging and gratifying endeavor.
Sakata regarded the three pillars of the station before him with satisfaction. This new TV Tokyo, set against the backdrop of the Greater Tokyo metropolitan area, had been forged into a single rope.
He set down his teacup and pivoted once more — this time, his gaze focused entirely on Nohara Hiroshi.
"Hiroshi, we'll push the political front together. But your own primary work cannot be neglected. Besides — it's almost your harvest season."
Nohara Hiroshi blinked slightly: "Bureau Chief, you mean...?"
"The major award ceremonies." Sakata's face broke into that old-fox grin. "The Television Drama Academy Awards, the Mainichi Film Awards, and our own industry Tokyo Drama Awards — this year's selection processes have all been set in motion."
He leaned forward slightly, expectation unmistakable in his tone.
"Last year, your Yamishibai, Tales of the Unusual, and Kasou Taishou were all submitted. They should pick up quite a few awards, bringing great honor to TV Tokyo. Unfortunately, your epochal works this year — Seven Samurai, Hachiko Monogatari, and the phenomenal Midnight Diner — won't be eligible until next year's cycle. Otherwise they'd sweep every podium without question."
Sakata's gaze grew weighted with meaning: "So be prepared. When the time comes, it won't just be you — your entire Nohara Independent Production Department, your whole team, will need to wear your finest suits and be ready to walk the red carpet to receive the honors that belong to you. This isn't just your personal glory — it's TV Tokyo's best opportunity to showcase our production capabilities to all of Japan, and to the world."
Takada Toshihide and Asumi also turned to Nohara Hiroshi, their eyes filled with anticipation and a tinge of envy.
Everyone in the room understood the weight of Sakata's words.
This was more than a notification — it was a promise and an endorsement. It meant the station would deploy every resource at its disposal to lobby and build momentum for Nohara Hiroshi's works in every major award competition.
Nohara Hiroshi listened quietly to the end, his face betraying no particular emotion — as though the coming avalanche of honors was merely another item already planned on his calendar.
He nodded, his voice characteristically calm yet carrying a persuasive authority.
"No problem, Bureau Chief. I'll make sure everyone is ready."
...
When Nohara Hiroshi pushed open the Independent Production Department's office door, sunlight was slanting through the blinds, sliced by floating dust motes into ten thousand fine beams — like some silent benediction, warmly blanketing the entire space.
The air carried the faint aroma of coffee and printer ink, mingled with a scalding emotion called "hope."
Kitagawa Yao stood on tiptoe by the filing cabinet, reaching for the top shelf. At the sound of the door, she turned — her smile brighter than the sunlight itself, her hair tracing an elegant arc in the movement.
"Department Manager, welcome back." Her voice was wind chimes.
"Mm." Nohara Hiroshi loosened his suit's top button and set his briefcase on the desk with the settled calm of a veteran returning from the front. "Yao-chan, would you call all four section chiefs over? Hashishita, Yamamoto, Sato, and Tanaka — I need them here now."
"Right away." Kitagawa Yao asked nothing more, immediately turning to the phone. Her heels clicked against the floor in crisp, rhythmic percussion — the office's finest marching tune.
Shortly, the door opened again. Figures filed in, filling the sunlit space with fresh energy.
First through the door was Sato Kenji — the Section Two chief who'd rocketed to fame overnight thanks to Midnight Diner. His face glowed like a ripe apple, practically dripping with honeyed delight. Even his stride carried a new lightness, an irrepressible high-spiritedness.
Close behind came Yamamoto Takeshi, Section One chief and the man responsible for the phenomenon that was Tales of the Unusual. Older, his steps measured, he watched Sato Kenji with a barely perceptible look of approval and paternal pride — like a veteran watching a comrade finally step into the spotlight.
Variety Section Chief Tanaka Kei and Animation Section Chief Hashishita Ichiro entered together.
Tanaka Kei had a natural-born smile — corners always turned upward. His department may not have blazed as brightly as the drama divisions, but Kasou Taishou — the national-participation variety show — was the entire production department's biggest cash cow.
Hashishita Ichiro appeared more subdued. The man behind the eerily atmospheric Yamishibai always carried a certain artiste-at-odds-with-the-world quality, but today even his perpetually melancholy eyes sparked with genuine joy.
"Department Manager!" Sato Kenji couldn't contain himself the moment he walked in. "Midnight Diner's morning ratings — 18.7%! I still feel like I'm dreaming! My head's still spinning!"
Tanaka Kei dramatically tapped his chest, laughing: "Sato-san, you're stealing my bread! Plenty of variety departments at the Production Bureau slave away for an entire season and pop champagne if they crack 15% — and here you are, first episode of a late-night drama, shooting straight to the heavens."
Yamamoto Takeshi smiled warmly, patting Sato on the shoulder: "That's what you get following Department Manager Nohara. Better get used to it — his talent is simply unbeatable!"
"Of course — following Department Manager Nohara has really put my name on the map! Everyone's been reaching out!" Sato Kenji's modesty was purely verbal;
his smile only grew more radiant. "Honestly, I never expected numbers this high. I thought 12% would already be a massive win. When people ask how I did it, all I can say is: it was all Department Manager Nohara's guidance!"
Hashishita Ichiro leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and offered a rare comment: "I've seen the screeners. That unique atmosphere is something you barely see on television anymore. Success was inevitable."
Tanaka Kei laughed heartily: "Looks like our Independent Production Department is about to birth another signature work this year!"
A shadow of regret crossed Sato Kenji's smile. He sighed: "If only it had aired earlier. Submission deadlines for this year's major TV drama awards have already passed. Midnight Diner won't make the cut."
Yamamoto Takeshi nodded in agreement: "That's right — the Academy Awards closed submissions last month, and the Tokyo Drama Awards too. Otherwise, with Midnight Diner's quality and premiere ratings, a Best New Director nomination or a Work Prize nod would've been a lock."
"Tell me about it." Tanaka Kei spread his hands. "Those judges are always the last to know. By the time they figure it out next year, the flowers will have wilted. Still — silver lining: we build up steam, and next year we go straight for the annual grand prize!"
"The grand prize..." Sato Kenji murmured, eyes alight with future dreams.
The office filled with buoyant energy — genuine joy over a shared victory, shared wistfulness over one small imperfection.
This was a pure, uncomplicated happiness that belonged to creators.
Nohara Hiroshi had stayed silent throughout, listening quietly, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
He waited until the chatter subsided, then tapped his knuckles lightly against the desk — two crisp sounds.
Every eye snapped to him.
"I called everyone here today because of the awards, actually." Nohara Hiroshi's voice wasn't loud, but it carried a steadying power that put everyone at ease.
He surveyed the four section chiefs he'd personally chosen, his gaze resting briefly on each face.
"But not for Midnight Diner."
Surprise rippled through the room.
Nohara Hiroshi continued: "Hashishita, Yamamoto, Sato, Tanaka — each of you, go back to your sections and select five of your most essential production staff."
He paused, giving them a moment to absorb it, then pronounced each word with deliberate weight:
"Then bring them along with me to the award ceremonies."
The office went silent for a full second.
Then — gasps that couldn't be held back.
"The... award ceremonies?" Sato Kenji's eyes went round as saucers. He was the first to process it, his voice nearly stuttering. "Department Manager, which award ceremony?"
"More than one." Nohara Hiroshi leaned back, hands interlaced before him, posture entirely at ease. "Get your sharpest suits and formal wear ready. The next month will be busy."
Tanaka Kei lurched forward, practically throwing himself across Nohara Hiroshi's desk: "Department Manager, please stop keeping us in suspense! Tell us!"
Nohara Hiroshi's gaze swept across four faces etched with anticipation and excitement. Slowly, he spoke:
"Three days from now: the Television Drama Academy Awards."
"Five days from now: the Mainichi Film Awards."
"And at the end of this month: this year's Tokyo Drama Awards."
A cascade of names — each thunderously renowned in the Japanese entertainment world — fell from Nohara Hiroshi's lips with understated ease, yet detonated like one heavy bomb after another in the small office.
The four section chiefs' expressions evolved from initial delight to ecstasy to a near-disbelieving shock.
"The Academy Awards... the Mainichi... plus this year's newly established Tokyo Awards — a joint production by our TV Tokyo, Tokyo City, Tokyo Metropolis, and the entire Kanto region..." Yamamoto Takeshi's voice trembled. As a veteran TV drama producer, he understood the exact weight of these three names. "Department Manager, you're saying... we... we have nominations?"
"Not one nomination." Nohara Hiroshi corrected. "Many."
"YES—!" Tanaka Kei could no longer contain himself. He threw a triumphant fist and whooped: "I knew it! I KNEW Tales of the Unusual would make it!"
Sato Kenji flushed with excitement: "Even though Midnight Diner missed the window, our department has other projects! This is incredible!"
Hashishita Ichiro's perpetually taut face finally relaxed completely. His lips curved upward against his will, an unusual brilliance sparking in his eyes.
"Yamamoto." Nohara Hiroshi addressed his veteran subordinate. "Tales of the Unusual has quite a few Academy Award nominations. How many do you think we can take?"
Yamamoto Takeshi drew a deep breath, fought to calm his excitement, and let his professional producer's cool judgment reclaim the high ground.
"Department Manager, this year's Tales of the Unusual anthology episodes were all exceptionally high quality. For screenplay, I believe we're extremely competitive for 'Best Screenplay' — especially the 'Grandma' and 'Vending Machine Man' episodes. Both the public response and critical reception were phenomenal."
He paused, eyes sharpening: "And for the acting categories — Ms. Nakayama Miho's performance in the 'Belated Lover' episode was stunning. She completely shattered her previous idol image. I believe the buzz for her winning 'Best Actress' will be very strong!"
"Exactly!" Tanaka Kei jumped in. "The papers all said her performance was heartbreaking — the defining role of her year! If she doesn't win Best Actress, who would?"
"And the great Ogata-sensei's performance in 'The Other Me' was textbook-level acting," Yamamoto continued. "Although it was only an anthology episode, given his stature and skill, contending for Best Actor isn't impossible. At minimum, a Best Supporting Actor nomination should be locked in."
Sato Kenji listened with blood pumping hot through his veins. He couldn't help interjecting: "What about 'Drama of the Year'? Section Chief Yamamoto — Tales of the Unusual was THIS year's talk of town!"
Yamamoto pondered for a moment, his expression turning serious: "That's the toughest category. This year's competition is fierce — Fuji TV's Love of Mount Fuji has massive momentum, practically reaching social-phenomenon status. We may match them in critical acclaim and creative innovation, but we might fall slightly behind in national popularity. However, winning a 'Special Award' recognizing our innovation in series format? I think that's quite likely!"
The conversation turned to Hashishita Ichiro. Nohara Hiroshi smiled and asked: "Hashishita, what about you? Yamishibai may be niche, but the Mainichi Film Awards place great emphasis on artistry and avant-garde spirit."
Hashishita adjusted his glasses. Behind the lenses, his gaze burned with stubborn confidence: "Department Manager, the Mainichi Film Awards have the Ofuji Noburo Award, specifically honoring experimental and innovative animation. Yamishibai's kamishibai presentation style and horror atmosphere are absolutely unique among this year's entire animation output. We're not going as seat-fillers — we're going to win."
His words contained zero bluster — only the calm certainty of someone stating fact. And that was more powerful than any boast.
"Well said!" Tanaka Kei clapped his hands hard. "That's the spirit! And what about the Variety Section? Department Manager, do we have a shot at the Tokyo Drama Awards?"
Nohara Hiroshi smiled: "Kasou Taishou has stable ratings and a strong audience base. Variety shows winning awards isn't easy, but it's not impossible either. TV Tokyo has already submitted you for 'Best Planning Award.' The rest is up to the judges' taste."
"A nomination is already a victory!" Tanaka Kei beamed with contentment. "Getting to take my boys down the red carpet and show them the big stage — that's better than any prize!"
The office atmosphere peaked at white-hot intensity. Everyone was envisioning the glory three days hence, five days hence, and at month's end.
All those hours buried behind project proposals, storyboards, and editing consoles — the toil and sweat — seemed in this moment to have crystallized prematurely into the sweetest of fruits.
This wasn't merely recognition of a few shows. It was the ultimate validation for every member of this once-marginalized "Independent Production Department."
It was Nohara Hiroshi who had led them — carving a flower-lined path from barren, forgotten ground through sheer force of will.
Nohara Hiroshi watched his elated subordinates — their faces aglow with the most honest of smiles, their eyes shining with the purest love for and desire within their craft.
Something warm stirred in his chest too.
Bubble-era Tokyo: prosperous and cold, every person a cog in a high-speed machine, racing for survival and desire. And yet — there were moments, there were people, who made you think that this kaleidoscopic, relentless city was actually... rather endearing.