"Stay tuned," he said.
With that, he turned sharply, showing no hesitation, and strode toward the shadows backstage.
Click.
The spotlight that had been following him all this time instantly extinguished.
The entire Peacock Hall plunged into darkness, leaving only the pale "39,800" glowing on the massive screen, silently mocking all the opponents who had fallen behind in this game.
Is that it?
Five full seconds passed before the house lights finally came back on.
"Wait! Executive Director Nakayama! Is that it?"
"What about the release date? This Christmas or next spring?"
"How many units will you have in stock? Give us something concrete!"
The reporters, like a disturbed hornet's nest, surged forward with their cameras and microphones, but were immediately blocked by a wall of security personnel who had been stationed there in advance.
There were no Q&A sessions, no press conferences, not even a press release.
Sega's press conference was like a wild rock star, playing the most electrifying climax and then storming offstage, leaving behind a room full of goosebumps and a sea of bewildered questions.
Ken Kutaragi remained seated, motionless.
The surrounding clamor seemed to fade into irrelevance as he stared at the now-empty stage, his expression so dark it could have dripped water.
The most brutal move was withholding the release date.
If Sega had announced a date, Sony could have adjusted its strategy accordingly, even launching a preemptive strike.
But now, the Damocles sword hung over their heads, its fall date unknown.
This fear of the unknown, like that 39,800 yen price, was driving them mad.
Sony needed to act.
In the smoke-filled executive conference room at Sony Headquarters in Tokyo Shinagawa, the night outside was deep and rain lashed against the windows, but nothing could cool the tense atmosphere within.
Kutaragi slammed the sticky note bearing the figure "39,800" onto the table with such force that the cigarette butts in the ashtray jumped.
Nobuyuki Idei, seated opposite him, frowned deeply, clutching the emergency financial projections just delivered by the Finance Department.
"Kutaragi, this isn't a game," Idei said, his knuckles rapping against the table, his voice weary. "At this price, we'll lose four thousand yen on every PlayStation sold, and that's before accounting for marketing and channel rebates. If we sell a million units in the first year, that's a four-billion-yen deficit."
Ryoji Nakabachi, responsible for production, removed his glasses and rubbed his temples. "And you know the group's financial situation. The hole at Columbia Pictures is still gaping, and the old men on the board will have heart attacks at the mere mention of a deficit. Proposing this suicidal pricing strategy now is like walking straight into a gunfight."
A deathly silence fell over the conference room.
Ken Kutaragi gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching and releasing.
Did he not know this was walking a tightrope?
But that bastard Takuya Nakayama had backed him into a corner.
Sega's "arms race" display, coupled with their bombshell pricing, meant that if Sony dared to set the PlayStation at 44,000 yen, the console might end up gathering dust in warehouses.
"If we don't match them, we're dead," Ken Kutaragi gritted out, "This isn't the time to worry about small losses. If we don't drive down the price, we won't get hardware into people's homes. Without software, this machine will just be a pile of plastic."
"So, we're going to let the group absorb billions more in losses?" Nobuyuki Idei retorted. "What if we fail?"
"Enough."
Oga Norio, who had been silently presiding at the head of the table, suddenly spoke. The President, a former opera singer, showed no sign of agitation. He slowly extinguished his cigar and swept his gaze over the three men locked in their argument.
"Mr. Idei, you're still too focused on immediate gains and losses," Oga Norio's deep, authoritative voice carried an undeniable weight.
He rose and walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling window, gazing out at Tokyo's dazzling nightscape.
"How much did we lose on Columbia Pictures? Three billion dollars. In comparison, the initial losses on PlayStation are barely a drop in the bucket." Oga Norio turned around, holding up a finger. "Now that we've committed to this industry, we can't afford to treat it as an experiment. The PlayStation project has already consumed tens of billions in R&D. If we don't push the installed base past that critical threshold, all that investment will have been for nothing. Ultimately, Sony's PlayStation is now an arrow drawn taut on the bowstring—we have no choice but to release it."
Nobuyuki Idei opened his mouth, but ultimately remained silent.
The problem of sunk costs was indeed unavoidable.
"Besides, you all seem to have forgotten something far more interesting."
A cunning smile spread across Oga Norio's face as he returned to the table. He tapped his finger on the Sega Jupiter's configuration sheet. "Look at this: a dual-speed CD-ROM drive."
All eyes focused on that line of specifications.
"Sega was clever, using our technology to fight us," Oga Norio said, his smile carrying the slyness of an old fox. "But this also means that every Jupiter they sell, every game disc they press, means they have to pay Sony patent royalties and licensing fees.
Ken Kutaragi suddenly looked up, his eyes brightening.
He'd been so caught up in his anger that he'd almost forgotten this crucial point.
"Takuya Nakayama wants to popularize the CD format and completely end Nintendo's era of cartridges. Strategically, this is a huge help to us," Oga Norio said, unbuttoning his suit jacket and adopting a more relaxed tone. "He's charging ahead, cultivating the market for us and promoting the CD-ROM format. Even if the PlayStation takes a temporary loss, as long as the CD format becomes the standard, Sony—as the standard-setter—will come out on top no matter what."
His words were like a refreshing breeze, dispelling the stifling atmosphere in the conference room.
Ryoji Nakabachi nodded thoughtfully. "So, the better Sega sells, the better our optical storage business reports will look. Using our competitor's money to fund our R&D department—that's a smart business move."
"So, let's stop dwelling on it."
Oga Norio leaned forward, resting his hands on the table, his gaze intense as he fixed on Kutaragi. "39,800 yen. That's our price."
"If Sega wants to play big, Sony will play bigger."
Kutaragi took a deep breath and nodded heavily.
The boulder that had been weighing on his heart shattered instantly, replaced by the exhilarating tremor of impending battle.
The smoke in the room thickened slightly. Nobuyuki Idei hadn't fully relaxed despite Oga Norio's decisive stance. He pushed the sticky note with "39,800" back to the center of the table and began tapping his fingers absently on the surface.
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