August 26, 1988. 10:00 AM.
Kasumigaseki — Ministry of Construction.
Four shredders had been running for three straight hours, and the office of the Building Guidance Division stank of overheated varnish. It was a sour, burnt smell that no amount of air conditioning could scrub out.
Outside, the mid-summer cicadas screamed. Inside, the motors cycled on and off in tired gasps.
Acting Division Chief Takeda sat in Noda Kenji's old chair. The leather still seemed to hold the former bureau chief's body heat, and to Takeda it felt like sitting on a hot iron.
When they named him acting chief, he'd gone numb. Profit was never his. Blame, though — that was always his. He was the sacrificial pawn, and he knew it.
Two things lay on his desk.
On the left, a draft order to keep the "S.A. Crystal Palace" site shut down. Noda had circled it in red before his arrest — Kanemaru Shin's direct instruction, unmistakable.
On the right, a fresh copy of the Nihon Keizai Shimbun.
The front-page headline was brutal: "Consumption Tax Bill Forced to Vote: Commoner's Radish Taxed, Politician's 100 Million in Stocks Tax-Free?"
Beside it ran a photo of furious housewives with banners in front of the Diet: Oppose Consumption Tax / Full Recruit Probe.
The scandal had metastasized, and public anger was turning feral. Takeshita's cabinet approval ratings were in free fall. Passing the consumption tax was fantasy; keeping the cabinet alive was looking just as hard.
"Division Chief…"
A young staffer approached with a folder, voice low, eyes flicking to the door as if he expected Tokusōbu to kick it in any second.
"Tokusōbu just hit Labor Ministry next door. Heard… the Administrative Vice-Minister got pulled in."
Takeda's finger twitched.
Even a Vice-Minister wasn't safe anymore?
He grabbed the newspaper and stared at the words unlisted stocks.
Under normal circumstances this would be a standard political donation scandal. Secretary takes the fall, politician bows, wait out the news cycle.
But not this time.
Recruit — Apex, whatever name they used — had been too greedy. Pre-IPO shares handed to politicians for pocket change, then cashed out for hundreds of millions after listing. And under current law, those capital gains were tax-free.
At the exact same moment, the government was trying to squeeze a 3% consumption tax out of every household's grocery bill.
That naked "relative deprivation" had set the country on fire.
The Special Investigation Department wasn't just prosecuting now; they were performing a public exorcism. Anyone tied to Kanemaru Shin was a target standing in open ground.
"Division Chief?" the staffer prompted. "Saionji's legal team is here again with an 'Application for Administrative Reconsideration.' Secretary-General's office called too. Said to 'hold the line'…"
"Hold the line?"
Takeda gave a short, broken laugh.
He pointed at the newspaper, his voice hoarse.
"With what? My pension? My freedom?"
"Can't you see? It's gasoline out there. One spark and Kasumigaseki burns. Kanemaru's own eyebrows are on fire. Who's he protecting?"
In a superstorm that had already reached every LDP faction leader and touched former Prime Minister Nakasone, an acting division chief like him wasn't even an ant.
If he didn't cut ties with the Takeshita Faction now and send the Saionji Family — the victim — on their way, the moment Tokusōbu found out he'd helped Kanemaru with political persecution, Noda's detention cell would be his tomorrow.
Come to think of it, wasn't Saionji originally not with Takeshita? When had they severed so cleanly? Nobody cared anymore. Saionji versus Takeshita was public knowledge now, and the history didn't matter.
Takeda opened his drawer, took out stomach pills, and dry-swallowed two. The bitter powder hit his tongue and cleared his head a fraction.
He didn't understand everything, but he understood this: stay on this ship and he drowns, guaranteed.
He picked up a red pen and slashed a violent X across the "continued stop-work" draft.
"Rewrite it," Takeda said, his voice carrying the flat decisiveness of a man with nothing left to lose.
"Write: 'Expert panel re-surveyed. Prior data errors due to instrument calibration drift. Confirmed: all fireproofing and seismic structures meet the highest standards of the Building Standards Act.'"
"Permit… immediate resumption."
The staffer's eyes went wide. "But… Secretary-General Kanemaru—"
"Want to keep Noda company?!"
Takeda slammed the folder down. The whole office went quiet, and the shredders stuttered to a stop.
"Tokusōbu has lost its mind! Keep blocking a clean project and we're basically posting a sign that says 'investigate me, I'm dirty'!"
"The ship's sinking. Who cares what the captain's shouting? Everyone's grabbing lifeboats!"
Takeda ripped his tie loose, breathing hard.
"Stamp it. Now. Send that damn 'Compliance Notice' out."
"Get this curse off us."
---
12:00 PM.
Ginza 7-chome.
The sun was merciless. Asphalt softened and shimmered with heat.
The gates of "S.A. Crystal Palace" were still sealed. The yellow work-stop notice had curled and grayed in the sun, dust-caked and ugly.
A plain gray Toyota sedan pulled up without fanfare.
The doors opened and two Ministry of Construction officials stepped out in short sleeves. No white gloves, no arrogance, no chin-up posturing.
They moved fast, heads down, looking like they wanted to be invisible.
"Executive Director Endo."
The lead official found Endo waiting in the shade of the side gate. He pulled a document from his briefcase and handed it over.
"Resumption permit."
His voice was flat, his eyes refusing to settle on Endo's face.
"Prior… work process misunderstanding. Apologies for the trouble."
"Truly. Very sorry."
He bowed deeply and offered the paper with both hands.
Endo took the thin sheet. The Ministry's red seal was still damp.
"Misunderstanding?"
Endo adjusted his glasses and looked at the official's panicked expression.
He remembered what the Eldest Miss had said yesterday: "When bureaucrats realize their master can't protect them and will drag them into the consumption tax explosion, they'll betray faster than flipping a page."
Exactly as predicted.
"A month ago, your people stood here and told me this building was a hazard, that it could collapse any minute," Endo said evenly.
"That… that was instrument error."
The official wiped sweat from his brow and reached for the yellow seal on the iron gate.
Riiip—
The administrative barrier that had loomed over the Saionji Family for a month came off like wet paper and fluttered to the ground as trash.
The official didn't wait for Endo to sign the receipt. He shoved the documents into his hands, bolted for the car, and drove off like he was fleeing a crime scene.
Endo watched the sedan disappear, then looked down at the permit in his hand.
He turned toward the dozens of workers behind him — hard hats on, tools ready, eyes bright with anticipation.
The site had been dead for over a month. Not even stray cats came by.
Endo drew a breath and raised his hand.
"START WORK!"
Rumble—!!!
The diesel generator deep in the site roared to life, belching black smoke into the sky.
Then the pneumatic drills bit concrete with a rat-tat-tat, electric saws screamed through rebar, and the crane's winch ground into motion.
The noises collided into a single wave that rolled down Ginza, drowning the cicadas entirely.
It was the sound of machinery.
It was also the sound of Kanemaru Shin's defensive line snapping.
---
3:00 PM.
Nagatacho — LDP Headquarters, Secretary-General's Office.
The curtains were drawn tight, the room dim and heavy with cigar smoke.
Kanemaru Shin sat behind his broad mahogany desk.
The TV was on, volume low. NHK was running a special: "Recruit Scandal Expands, Multiple Nakasone Faction Members Implicated."
On screen, one sanctimonious elder after another dodged cameras and microphones, faces tight with panic.
"Sensei."
Ozawa Ichiro pushed the door open and stepped in lightly. He carried no files. His expression was complicated.
"Speak."
Kanemaru didn't turn from the TV.
"Ginza… resumed."
Ozawa's voice was quiet.
"Just now. Construction Ministry withdrew the stop order. Reason: 'data re-verification passed.'"
Kanemaru's fingers froze on his cigar.
The ash finally gave way and snapped off with a soft pop, landing on his expensive trousers and burning a small black hole.
He didn't brush it away.
He turned his head slowly. Those perpetually half-lidded, calculating eyes were wide open now.
Last night he'd been shouting on the phone: Hold the line.
Today, his order had been treated like scrap paper.
"Takeda… Takeda signed it?" Kanemaru asked.
"Yes."
"Heh."
Kanemaru gave a dry laugh that sounded like a broken bellows.
"I called that kid yesterday. Said he'd hold."
"Today he opened the gate."
Kanemaru ground the cigar into the ashtray, twisting it hard until the ember was dead.
"Sensei, should we call the Construction Vice-Minister…" Ozawa tried.
"No need."
Kanemaru waved a hand. His back seemed to sag.
He knew what had happened.
Saionji hadn't just handed Tokusōbu names. They'd handed over family accounts and private ledgers.
The old "secretary takes the fall" trick was dead. The evidence showed stocks in wives' and children's names. No secretary could absorb that.
The firewall had been breached.
And with the consumption tax fueling public rage… "Bureaucrats are dogs that won't stay loyal."
Kanemaru looked at the map of Japan on the wall and his voice went cold.
"They wag their tails for meat. But when the master can't hold the whip, they bite the rope first."
"It's pointless now. Saionji proved their fangs are sharper than our whips. Pushing harder just makes more people jump."
"The problem isn't one site."
Kanemaru turned, his gaze moving past Ozawa.
"The fire's at Nagatacho's pillars. If we can't save the consumption tax bill, Takeshita Cabinet falls. Cabinet falls, and owning all of Tokyo doesn't matter."
"Send word."
Kanemaru's voice was calm again. The faction boss who cut losses and lived to fight another day was back.
"Cease all targeted action on Saionji. Pull back. Full defense. Tokusōbu and the Opposition."
"As for that girl…"
Kanemaru narrowed his eyes, remembering the shadow that followed him on the Karuizawa slopes.
"Let her win. In this country, winners don't get punished."
---
6:30 PM. Dusk.
Bunkyo Ward — Saionji Main Residence.
The last of the sunset was gone. The courtyard had turned deep blue. Pyrethrum from mosquito coils hung in the air.
Satsuki wore a pale pink yukata and crouched on the engawa's stone step, a senko hanabi in her hand.
Hiss—
The match flared.
She lit the tip. The orange spark bloomed, tiny and delicate, with a soft sizzle like a blooming moss rose.
"Eldest Miss, it's done. Clean."
Dojima Gen's voice came from the shadow of the veranda. Security chief, black tactical shirt, muscle defined under the fabric. A brief in his hand.
"Per your orders. Package sent. Public phone booth locker. No prints. No witnesses. Bag bought secondhand."
"Reporter?"
Satsuki watched the trembling flame without looking up.
"Yamamoto's smart. Wants the scoop, not the trouble. Like last time. He'll call it his own investigation. Won't say a word."
"Good."
Satsuki's fingers were steady, but the fireball at the end of the paper trembled with its own weight.
A molten drop of orange light, ready to fall.
"Look, Dojima."
Satsuki's eyes were on the fire just before it died, reflected in her pupils.
"Burning brightest now. Like bureaucrats with power. Like that old man in the Secretary-General's chair."
"They cling to that thin paper, thinking they'll shine forever."
"But…"
Splatter.
The fireball dropped, hit the bluestone, and went out instantly. A wisp of blue smoke. A black mark.
Satsuki let go of the spent paper.
"Gravity doesn't negotiate."
She stood, brushed her yukata, and looked at the scorch mark at her feet.
"When they gorge themselves too fat, they fall."
"Noda's just the first."
Satsuki turned and walked inside, leaving a cold silhouette.
"Get ready, Dojima."
"Tonight, Tokyo won't sleep."