Tanaka leaned in closer, lowering his voice, his eyes darting toward the television screen.
"Tell me, does this Southeast Asia mess have anything to do with ordinary people like us? The news has been broadcasting the Thai Baht's crash every day. Those speculators like Soros are on a rampage. I've got a bad feeling about this—my right eyelid keeps twitching."
Sato wiped his hands with a napkin, his slightly flushed face from the alcohol gradually darkening.
"Don't even get me started. This afternoon, the old man from the Finance Department stormed into the President's office. They shut the door tight and argued for ages; you could hear the sound of tables being slammed from the hallway."
Tanaka paused, an edamame bean halfway to his mouth. "What happened? Isn't your company doing well?"
"We have an OEM factory in Bangkok. Everything's in chaos over there now. They're only accepting US Dollars for settlements. The local currency has plummeted in the blink of an eye, and material costs are all over the place. But that's not even the worst part. The worst part is the loans."
On the television, a financial expert was pointing at a massive chart, his voice strained as he analyzed, "Based on currently available data, the Japanese banking sector's risk exposure in Southeast Asia is extremely high. Specifically, several major financial institutions deeply involved in Thai real estate and infrastructure investments may be facing an uncontrollable surge in their non-performing loan rates—"
Sato pointed at the screen and gave a bitter smile.
"Hear that? Our company's main loan is with a major bank in Hokkaido. For the past two days, their loan officer has been haunting us like a debt collector, pressuring us to repay early or put up more collateral. They've even set their sights on the President's personal property."
Tanaka froze, his chopsticks suspended in mid-air.
"Pressuring us? The bank is short on cash? Aren't they supposed to be 'too big to fail'?"
Sato sneered, clinking his glass against Tanaka's with a sharp ping.
"Ting Hai can make a fortune selling naked index futures while blindfolded because he has protagonist armor in a TV show. In the real world, when Thailand collapsed, these banks watched tens of billions of yen vanish into thin air. They're like clay Buddhas crossing a river—they can't even save themselves, so they're clawing back domestic funds to survive. We, the real economy, are just their blood bags!"
A shiver ran down Tanaka's spine, and a cold sweat broke out on his back.
He dropped his chopsticks and fumbled for his phone.
"I have to call my wife! Last month, she invested all our savings into a Daiwa Fund with Southeast Asian exposure. I need to tell her to go to the branch first thing tomorrow and redeem everything! If we wait, there won't even be bones left!"
The next morning.
Ōta Ward, Takahashi Seiki Co., Ltd.
Outside, the faint roar of machinery echoed from the workshop—the very heartbeat of the factory's survival.
President Takahashi, his face grim, slammed a freshly printed financial report onto his solid wood desk.
The Finance Director stood opposite him, head bowed, hands clasped in front, silent. Beads of sweat covered his forehead.
"Did you watch TV Tokyo last night?" Takahashi asked, his thick finger rapping the desk with a sharp thud, thud, each strike feeling as if it were pounding directly into one's heart.
The Finance Director nodded repeatedly, his voice trembling. "I did, President. The experts listed the investment ratios of several major banks in Southeast Asia, even naming specific real estate projects."
"The one we're with is in the top three on the risk list!" Takahashi stood up, strode to the window, and yanked open the blinds. Harsh sunlight flooded in. "Their major resort projects in Thailand have all ground to a halt. That loan manager came by yesterday, all smiles, claiming it was a routine inspection of our collateral. But he was clearly fishing, trying to gauge how much cash we still have on hand!"
The Finance Director pulled out a handkerchief and frantically wiped the sweat from his brow.
"President, what are we going to do? We have a major payment for our upstream suppliers next month. If the bank suddenly calls in our loans to plug the hole in Southeast Asia, our cash flow will be cut off instantly!"
"We can't just sit here and wait for them to call in the loans!" Takahashi spun around, strode to the desk, and snatched up the phone receiver. A flicker of grim determination crossed his eyes. "Contact Mitsubishi Bank or Sumitomo Bank immediately. Get a new credit assessment. The moment we secure the funds, our first priority is to pay off this crumbling bank in full—every single cent! Transfer all the liquid assets in our accounts out. Don't leave them a single yen!"
The Finance Director stepped forward, his voice laced with desperation. "But President, repaying early will incur a massive penalty! It's against the rules—"
"Rules? To hell with the penalty!" Takahashi slammed his hand onto the leather sofa, sending a cloud of dust into the air. "Look at the situation we're in! What did Fong Chin-pok say in The Greed of Men? In a market crash, the slow die! These financial capitalists act like brothers one minute, then screw you over a hundred times worse than that madman Ting Hai. We're honest industrialists who've worked hard for our money. We will not be buried by their greed! Now go!"
The Finance Director swallowed hard, completely cowed by the President's fury. He snatched the documents from the desk.
"Yes, sir! I'll get right on it!"
Tokyo, Credit Department of a major bank.
The office area, once a bastion of quiet, solemn professionalism, was now as chaotic as a wet market.
Telephones rang incessantly, their shrill tones piercing the air.
Staff sprinted through the corridors, clutching thick folders. Their dress shoes thudded dully against the expensive carpet. People collided, scattering documents across the floor, but no one stopped to pick them up.
Yamada, the Section Chief of the Second Credit Section, yanked at his tie, which felt like it was strangling him. His collar was already soaked with sweat.
He gripped the desk phone's receiver with a deathly hold, shouting into it with a tone bordering on desperation.
"Hello? President Takahashi! Please, let me explain! Our bank's liquidity is perfectly fine! TV Tokyo is just spreading rumors for ratings—please, don't transfer your main account! We can lower the loan interest rate even further—Hello? Hello!"
The line went dead, replaced by a cold, mechanical busy signal.
Yamada slammed the receiver onto the cradle. He grabbed a glass of ice water from his desk and gulped it down. The freezing liquid trickled down his chin and into his collar, but it did nothing to extinguish the fire of panic in his chest.
The new employee beside him scrambled over, a thick stack of faxes in his hands. His voice trembled like a sieve.
"S-S-Section Chief! Only half the morning is gone, and twelve companies have already faxed us demanding to transfer their main accounts. Five more are asking to settle their loans early, even if it means defaulting!"
Yamada snatched the faxes, his palms slick with cold sweat as he flipped through the pages.
These small and medium-sized corporate clients—the same ones who used to grovel like grandchildren just to secure a few ten-million-yen loans—were now fleeing faster than rabbits, treating the bank like a plague-stricken house.
"Go find out!" Yamada roared, slamming the faxes onto his keyboard. "Who's leading this charge?"
The new hire shrank back, his neck retracting as he stammered, "The... the clients said... they watched the financial deep-dive on TV Tokyo last night. They think our bad debts in Southeast Asia are so bad we're exposed down to our underwear. They say it's too risky to keep their money with us—"
Yamada collapsed into his ergonomic chair, his eyes staring blankly at the Nikkei Index on his screen, which was plummeting in a freefall.
Just then, a glaringly obvious ad popped up in the top right corner of the screen:
[ Nomura Securities launches a new risk-hedging financial product to weather the storm of the era. We are your strongest support! Nomura Securities invites you to watch The Greed of Men tonight. ]
Yamada stared fixedly at the ad, his fists clenched so hard his nails dug deep into his palms, nearly drawing blood.
Backstabbed by our own industry—this is a direct strike at the heart!
TV shows, dramas, financial analyses—these damned media outlets and opportunistic brokerages had teamed up, their combined assault stripping their bank's trump cards completely bare.
Now, even the old lady selling takoyaki on the street knew that Southeast Asia was about to collapse and Japanese banks were in for a disaster.
The bank run had already formed; there was no stopping it.
RIIIIIIIIIIING—
The red internal phone on the desk, which rarely rang even once in several months, suddenly let out an excruciatingly shrill ring.
This phone connected directly to the branch manager's office.
Yamada flinched violently, as if struck by an electric current.
He stared fixedly at the flashing red light, his throat parched, cold sweat trickling down his temples. His hand hung in mid-air, unable to bring himself to answer that death knell of a phone call.
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