novelraw Chapter 9: Playback
Chapter 9: Playback
As Suzuki Kiyoto laid out the full story, Hiroshi finally understood why both he and Hashishita Ichiro had been late this morning.
First — they'd gone to apply for Hashishita Ichiro's promotion to Grade 3 Director.
Second — there was the matter of Yamishibai's copyright.
After all, the rights to Yamishibai were still in Hiroshi's hands. If they wanted to turn it into an anime, they'd naturally need to purchase the adaptation rights from him.
That was standard procedure.
But what had Suzuki Kiyoto so furious was that Hashishita Ichiro's promotion to Grade 3 Director had been stalled by the Human Resources Department.
They claimed, after an HR review and feedback from the Animation Department, that Hashishita Ichiro needed to participate in — or independently produce — higher-quality work before he could be considered.
That alone had left Suzuki Kiyoto seething.
If it had been just that, he might have swallowed his anger.
He understood that the people at TV Tokyo's headquarters had always been hostile toward outsiders like them.If even Suzuki Kiyoto himself got pushed around, what chance did Hashishita Ichiro have?
He could only grit his teeth and accept it.
But the real gut-punch came when he went to the Animation Department to apply for funding — specifically, to purchase the adaptation rights to Yamishibai. His proposed licensing fee of 500,000 yen per episode had been slashed straight down to 400,000.
It was a direct slap in the face.
"This is absolutely outrageous!"
Suzuki Kiyoto sat in his chair, still grinding his teeth with barely contained fury. "From what I've learned, Iwata Masao's side has been given two million yen per episode for production costs — and that's not even counting the manga licensing fees!"
It was the most blatant double standard imaginable.
There was one thing Suzuki Kiyoto hadn't mentioned.
His own allotted production budget was only one million yen per episode!
Half of what the other side had received!
Granted, in terms of the brief, Iwata Masao was tasked with producing a more polished, story-driven horror anime for the late-night slot — around eleven PM.
While Suzuki Kiyoto's assignment was a midnight horror anime for the graveyard shift — around twelve-twenty AM — with looser requirements.
But even so, the gap was a clear double standard.
And now—
They were doubling down on it!
Sitting there, Suzuki Kiyoto felt a fire igniting from somewhere deep within his soul, filling him with righteous indignation.
"Section Chief Suzuki, it's really all right. 400,000 yen is still quite a generous sum." But then Hiroshi spoke up with an easy smile, catching Suzuki Kiyoto off guard.
"Hiroshi-kun..." Suzuki Kiyoto stared at him, momentarily dazed.
"I'll accept the licensing fee." The corner of Hiroshi's mouth curved upward. "After all, this is only the price for Season One. If our show becomes a hit, then for Season Two — do you really think the price will stay this low?"
Hiroshi was betting his royalties on the future.
After all, whether or not Yamishibai would succeed — others might not know, but how could he possibly be uncertain?
"Hiroshi-kun!" Suzuki Kiyoto truly didn't know, and in that moment, his face was overcome with emotion.
He rose from his seat right then and there.
And bowed deeply to Hiroshi, his voice thick with gratitude. "Thank you so much, Nohara Hiroshi-kun!"
To Suzuki Kiyoto, Hiroshi was sacrificing his own money to support Suzuki's success.
And the young man's unwavering confidence in Suzuki Kiyoto himself—
That said everything about where they stood with each other!
Especially considering that Hiroshi was someone he'd personally recruited as a trainee assistant — and on top of that, the classmate and close friend of his own nephew, Suzuki Kawa.
This was someone who could absolutely be considered one of his own!
And the kind of person—
Who deserved to be treated with genuine respect!
"Mr. Suzuki!" Hiroshi, of course, understood Japanese etiquette. He didn't dare stand there and accept the bow casually — he immediately bent forward in an equally deep bow to show his humility.
Though, mid-bow, Hiroshi couldn't help but feel a twinge of resignation.
All this bowing, all the time.
And he always had to bow back.
If he didn't return the gesture, the other person would hold a grudge.
'This is ridiculous.' Hiroshi thought about Japan's rigid workplace hierarchy — the near-obsessive personal allegiances and faction politics, taken to an almost pathological degree — and even after transmigrating here as a twenty-something, he still couldn't fully adjust.
But what could he do? He was already here.
......
After discussing a few more points about the upcoming work, Hiroshi left Suzuki Kiyoto's office — buoyed by the man's encouraging words of approval — and returned to the section's workspace.
Light and sound rushed in from outside the door, and the vibrant little world of the office engulfed him once more.
He walked back to his desk. Minamura Hoshi and Haseji Hashiru were watching him with anxious eyes. Even Kitagawa Yao had turned to look at him with concern.
"Everything's fine." Hiroshi gave them a reassuring smile. "Let's keep working. Let's bring the first story to life before the day is over!"
His words seemed to carry a kind of magic, dispelling the unease that had settled over the team.
The low, oppressive mood caused by the Section Chief's tardiness and dark expression was swept away, replaced by a jolt of adrenaline — like a shot of pure energy.
Time slipped by in the quiet scratching of pen against paper.
Hiroshi said nothing more. He simply stood behind Minamura and Haseji like a calm, watchful ghost. His eyes scanned every sketch. Occasionally, his finger would alight on a specific frame, offering the most precise, incisive feedback.
"The shadow here — make it deeper. The kind of darkness that devours light."
"This man's expression shouldn't be terror. It should be confusion — that slow, creeping awareness that something isn't right."
"The talisman in the background — make it look older. As if the slightest touch would turn it to dust. But it's still sealed there, holding in a secret."
"What we want is atmosphere. Not conventional death and horror, but the suspicious feeling that rises from the familiar fabric of modern urban life — gradually shifting into unease, then fear, and finally into absolute, bone-deep terror. The kind that grows more horrifying the longer you think about it!"
His direction was precise and devastating, always cutting to the heart of what made each frame work.
Minamura and Haseji had evolved from initial astonishment into something approaching reverent devotion.
They felt less like they were producing an anime and more like they were performing some arcane ritual under the guidance of a master — slowly summoning a ghost that lurked deep within the paper, coaxing it into being one brushstroke at a time.
Hashishita Ichiro joined in as well, silently assisting with the coloring work. Though the shadow on his face hadn't fully lifted, his hands moved with meticulous precision.
He poured all his frustration and defiance into those thick, somber hues.
Three o'clock sharp in the afternoon.
When the final frame was scanned into the computer for the last round of compositing, every soul in Suzuki's section held their breath.
"Begin!" Suzuki Kiyoto gave the command.
"Hai!"
Minamura Hoshi pressed play with trembling fingers.
The office lights were switched off. Only the computer screen glowed with its cold, pale light.
A strange, eerie melody — as if echoing from some ancient era — drifted softly into the room. A sickly amber sunset bathed the residential neighborhood in an unsettling orange glow. Countless children played in the streets, their faces blank or twisted into uncanny grins.
A man wearing a yellow mask appeared on screen — a kamishibai storyteller pushing his cart. Accompanied by the rhythmic tap of a small drum, he spoke his introduction in a flat, emotionless monotone.
"Come one, come all, don't miss out..."
"It's Yamishibai time..."
Then, in funereal black text on a white background, the episode title faded in — "Yamishibai: Talisman Woman."
The scene shifted.
Rough lines. Large blocks of color. Characters flat as paper cutouts.
A man finds a new apartment. In the fading sunset, the moving truck pulls away with a muffled honk, its sound casting long shadows over the man's hollow, exhausted eyes — a face numb and vacant with the drudgery of relocation and the bleakness of a future he can barely contemplate.
Haseji Hashiru's voiceover narration began, introducing the protagonist.
That voice, filtering through the cheap speakers, felt as though it were scraping directly against each listener's eardrums.
The slideshow-style transitions, far from diminishing the horror, actually amplified it. The pauses, the static compositions held just a beat too long — they magnified the dread of the unknown, the unresolved, to a staggering degree.
When, at the story's climax, the man tore away more talismans from his apartment walls — and just above his head, sinister, malevolent shapes began materializing, one by one, with murderous intent—
The story cut to black!
The screen went dark.
Inside the office — dead silence.
Kitagawa Yao instinctively hugged her arms to her chest, her face drained of color. Minamura Hoshi and Haseji Hashiru were gasping for air, cold sweat beading on their foreheads.
"It worked..." Suzuki Kiyoto murmured. For the first time, a genuine light rekindled in his eyes.
Hiroshi switched the lights back on.
He surveyed everyone's reactions. Inside, he was perfectly calm.
All of this was exactly as he'd expected.
This brand of psychological terror — rooted in urban legends and everyday life — was, for the people of this era, a wholly new and irresistible thrill!