September 25, 1988, 10:00 AM.
Shinbashi, Minato Ward, Tokyo. Saionji Information Systems Co., Ltd. — formerly APEX Headquarters.
The building still smelled of fresh latex paint and disinfectant — a sharp, clinical scent. The gaudy Baroque decor President Ezaki had loved was gone. Every chandelier, every gilded frame, ripped out and replaced with cold gray walls and minimalist lines.
Where famous paintings once hung, there was now a single massive corkboard.
Shimomura Tsutomu stood in front of it, wearing a loose gray hoodie and battered sneakers. He chewed gum, making faint, wet smacking sounds. In his hand was a fistful of colored pushpins, like he was finishing a grade-school art project.
"This looks like an elementary student's craft assignment."
Osawa Ichiro stood three meters back, hands behind his back, brow furrowed.
This former power broker of the LDP's Takeshita Faction was used to heavy documents stamped with the Ministry of Finance's red seal, or checks slipped into envelopes. To him, this Tokyo map studded with red, blue, and yellow pushpins looked not just crude — it looked like a joke.
"If your elementary student could run a Cray supercomputer for three days straight, then sure, he could make this."
Shimomura didn't turn around. He casually drove a red pushpin into a street in Adachi Ward. Snap.
"Mr. Osawa, please don't be fooled by appearances."
Satsuki sat in a black leather swivel chair nearby, holding a cup of steaming black tea. She wore Seika Academy's autumn uniform today — deep blue blazer, gold school badge pinned to the lapel. She looked like a high school girl who'd skipped class. Today was Sunday, so technically she hadn't.
She blew gently on the tea leaves floating on the surface.
"Shimomura, explain."
"Yes, Boss."
Shimomura turned and pushed his thick glasses up the bridge of his nose.
He pointed at the map, and his demeanor shifted. The slacker vanished. In his place stood a scientist.
"One pin here represents a sample of one hundred people."
His finger swept across the dense red area.
"Red represents males aged 20 to 30, household income under four million yen per year, who scored low on 'compliance' and high on 'extreme dissatisfaction with the status quo' in SPI personality tests. We cross-referenced their job search records and consumption patterns. These people are most sensitive to words like 'fairness' and 'breaking privilege.'"
His finger moved to the blue clusters, concentrated in Setagaya and Chiyoda.
"Blue is the middle class and wealthy — annual income over ten million yen. Risk-averse. They crave stability. They care most about 'stock prices' and 'land prices.'"
Finally, his finger stopped on the chaotic yellow zones.
"And yellow… those are the 'swing voters.' No fixed political stance. Their votes depend on their mood, or which candidate's poster looks nicer."
Osawa Ichiro stared at the map.
His initial disdain evaporated. In its place came a chill that crawled up his spine.
As a seasoned politician who'd fought through decades of election wars, he understood instantly what this was.
In the past, elections were 'handshakes' and 'please vote for me.' Campaign vans crawled down streets blasting loudspeakers. You relied on support groups and industry associations for carpet-bombing mobilization. That was World War II warfare — wasteful, inefficient, dumb.
But this…
"You don't need to speak to everyone."
Satsuki set her teacup down. Porcelain hit wood with a crisp clink.
She stood and walked to the map, stopping beside Osawa.
"You only need to say what they want to hear, to the people who want to hear it."
"With this map, you can ignore the die-hard opposition who will never vote for you. You can spend every yen of your campaign funds precisely on those yellow and red pins."
Satsuki reached out, plucked a red pin from the board, and rolled it between her slender fingers.
"Prime Minister Takeshita's era was built on 'money' and 'favors.' That was the old Showa way."
She looked up. Her eyes — black and white, clear as glass — locked onto Osawa's.
"But in the coming new era, politics runs on 'data.'"
"Whoever controls the data controls the hearts of the people."
Osawa took a deep breath.
He looked at the map — at this giant net draped over Tokyo. And the thread that wove it was held in the hands of a teenage girl.
"This gift…"
Osawa's voice was hoarse.
"It's too valuable. Miss Saionji, what do you want?"
"I want you to become a 'villain.'"
Satsuki smiled slightly.
"The Special Investigation Department came up empty without the ledgers, but now they're like rabid dogs. They won't let go. Prime Minister Takeshita can't hold on much longer."
She turned, leaning her back against the wall of maps.
"The consumption tax bill must pass. This is the bottom line for the financial world. It's the bottom line for this country's finances. Takeshita Noboru can't do it anymore because he's too 'soft.' He cares too much about being 'all things to all people.'"
"We need a blade."
"A blade willing to cut open the wound on top of ruins — to push the bill through even if it means carrying infamy."
Osawa was stunned.
He understood exactly what Satsuki meant.
She was asking him to die. No — asking him to be the 'necessary evil.'
If he forced the consumption tax through, his approval rating would collapse overnight. For years, maybe decades, he'd be called the 'enemy of the people.'
But.
If he accomplished what even Takeshita Noboru couldn't, he would gain the final piece needed to climb to the summit of power: the trust of the financial world and the bureaucracy.
This was a massive gamble.
The stake was his political reputation. The payoff was the future seat of Prime Minister.
"…Interesting."
Osawa suddenly laughed. It was the wild laugh of an ambitious man seeing a once-in-a-lifetime wager.
He stepped to the map, took the red pin from Satsuki's fingers, and drove it hard into the center — right on Nagatacho.
"Fine."
"I'll be this villain."
Shimomura Tsutomu rolled his eyes nearby, still chewing gum. His fingers typed out lines of green code on the keyboard.
Pop.
He blew a bubble.
---
Late night, 11:00 PM.
Daizawa, Setagaya Ward. Takeshita Noboru's private residence.
The autumn rain fell steadily.
Cold rain drummed against the stone lanterns in the Japanese garden, a monotonous, desolate sound. Water poured off the eaves in sheets, sealing the mansion off from the world.
The main lights in the study were off. Only a floor lamp cast dim yellow light.
Takeshita Noboru wore a worn wool cardigan, sitting alone at a low table. There were no documents on it. Just a half-empty bottle of sake and two cups.
Across from him knelt a man.
Takeshita's chief secretary, the 'vault keeper' who'd followed him for thirty years — Aoki Ihei.
"Prime Minister."
Aoki's voice was soft, with a tremor he couldn't hide. He didn't touch the sake cup in front of him. His hands stayed properly on his knees, head bowed, eyes on the tatami's fine pattern.
"The Special Investigation Department summoned my wife again this afternoon."
Takeshita's hand, holding his sake cup, froze.
"What did they ask?"
"They asked about the source of our home mortgage." Aoki looked up. His face, usually gentle, was now paper-white. His eyes were sunken. "Even though the Saionji Family cleaned up APEX's ledgers, the Special Investigation Department won't stop. Since they can't find anything on the company, they've started investigating individuals."
"They said… as long as no 'specific person' steps forward to take responsibility, the investigation will never end."
Takeshita fell silent.
He turned his head and looked out at the pitch-black rainy night.
Because there was no key evidence, the Special Investigation Department had descended into retaliatory investigation. Public opinion had already decided: 'destroying evidence means you're guilty.' The cabinet's approval rating was in freefall. Party elders were watching him. The opposition was watching him. Every citizen in Japan was watching him.
If no explanation was given, this fire would burn until it consumed the cabinet and destroyed all of Keiseikai.
"Ihei."
Takeshita's voice was like an old bellows, raspy and broken.
"Do you remember thirty years ago, back in our hometown in Shimane Prefecture?"
Aoki's body jolted.
"Back then, we swore we'd make this country better."
Takeshita set down his cup. The sake inside rippled, sending out rings.
"But now, the consumption tax bill is stuck in the Diet. If this bill doesn't pass, Japan's finances are finished."
"As long as the Special Investigation Department's investigation doesn't end, the opposition has an excuse to refuse deliberation."
Takeshita didn't say the word.
He only reached out with a trembling hand and grasped Aoki's cold ones.
"Ihei, for the Party… for the country."
The room went dead silent.
Only the rain outside remained, like the wailing of countless wronged spirits.
Aoki slowly straightened his back. He looked at Takeshita — at the lord he'd served for half his life. He saw pain and reluctance in his lord's eyes. But more than that, he saw a politician's cold resolve.
He understood. The time had come.
As long as he lived, he was a living target, the thread connecting the Prime Minister to the scandal. Only a dead man could cut that thread clean. Only a dead man could force the Special Investigation Department to close the case.
This was the darkest, most 'traditional' unspoken rule of Showa politics.
And… the time had come, hadn't it? Hadn't he prepared himself long ago? What else was there to say?
"I understand."
A trace of a smile — almost relief — appeared on Aoki's face.
He withdrew his hands, picked up the untouched cup of sake, held it in both hands, and raised it toward Takeshita.
"Prime Minister."
"Please… you must govern this country well."
"This cup of sake, I'll drink first as a toast."
He tilted his head back and drained it in one go. The pungent liquid slid down his throat like a burning coal.
"Ihei…"
Takeshita opened his mouth. Two lines of muddy tears rolled down his wrinkled cheeks. But he didn't stop him.
Aoki slowly, deeply performed a dogeza, his forehead thumping heavily against the tatami.
"All responsibility lies with my own arbitrary actions. It has nothing to do with the Prime Minister."
"Please… take care."
He stood, adjusted his unwrinkled suit, then turned and slid the door open, walking into the pitch-black hallway.
Creak—
The door closed.
Leaving light and warmth inside, taking darkness and death away.
Takeshita slumped in his chair and covered his face with his hands.
On this cold, rainy night, the old man at the summit of power sobbed silently like a child.
For power.
For that damned bill.
He had personally handed the blade to his most loyal retainer.
---
The next morning, 6:00 AM.
Bunkyo Ward, Saionji Main Family Residence.
It was a cold morning. The leaves in the garden had started to yellow, carrying the bleakness of autumn.
In the tea room 'Muku,' charcoal glowed faint red. Water in the iron kettle gurgled.
Shuichi sat at the tea table, holding a morning paper that had just been delivered.
His hand trembled slightly.
The front page was a black-and-white photo with a shocking headline:
"Prime Minister Takeshita's Chief Secretary Aoki Ihei Found Dead by Suicide at Residence This Morning"
"Police Preliminary Determination: Hanging. Suicide Note Left at Scene: 'Everything was my own arbitrary action.'"
"Crazy…"
Shuichi murmured, setting the paper down.
"It really came to this. Is this the 'benevolence and righteousness' of Showa politics? Using a life to fill the cracks of power."
Though he'd rolled through the political world for years and had known about the 'lizard cutting its tail' tradition forever, Shuichi still felt a bone-deep chill when a living person actually became cold type on a page.
This was the game they were playing.
With lives as stakes.
Snip.
The crisp sound of pruning shears closing rang out.
Satsuki knelt nearby, holding the shears, trimming a flower arrangement.
A withered chrysanthemum was cut off and fell to the wooden floor.
"This isn't benevolence and righteousness, Father."
Satsuki's voice was calm. She didn't look at the newspaper. Her attention was on the branch in her hands.
"This is the 'necrosis' of the old era."
She set down the shears, picked up the fallen flower with fair fingers, and gently crushed it.
"Aoki's death will force the Special Investigation Department to close the case. Under Japanese law, if the suspect dies, no indictment is filed. Kanemaru Shin is safe. Takeshita Noboru is a lame duck now, but he's temporarily safe too."
"But…"
Satsuki's fingers tightened slightly. The withered chrysanthemum shattered in her palm, petals scattering.
"The people's anger won't vanish. This fire has been forcibly smothered. It will only build up, and it will need a new outlet."
"The countdown to the fall of the Takeshita Cabinet has begun. That viscous, ambiguous Showa era built on personal favors ended completely with Aoki Ihei's death."
Shuichi looked at his daughter's exquisite, indifferent profile and suddenly felt she was a stranger. He felt awe.
"Then, on Osawa's side…"
"Mr. Osawa is already prepared."
Satsuki picked up a wet towel and wiped her hands. Her movements were elegant, composed.
"When Takeshita announces his resignation, Osawa will step in as the 'party reformist' to take over the mess of the consumption tax."
She turned her head and looked out the window.
The fog outside was thick, shrouding the garden and all of Tokyo.
Beneath that gray horizon, the massive city was waking up. Countless people were rising from sleep, preparing to hustle through another day. Who among them knew that in last night's rain, a man had died alone to cover the sins of great men?
"The stage has been cleared."
Satsuki said softly. The corners of her mouth curved into a faint, meaningful smile.
"Osawa Ichiro's era… no, our era, has begun."
The morning fog shrouded Tokyo like a massive white shroud draped over a giant corpse.
The sun rose.
But this light brought no warmth.