The cheers and excitement from the Kiki's Delivery Service celebration banquet had barely faded when the film's reputation and box office numbers skyrocketed—ushering in what seemed to be a glorious summer for Studio Ghibli.
Takuya Nakayama, nourished by the sweetness of new love, was in high spirits. He even walked through the halls of Sega with a light bounce in his step, humming cheerfully while reviewing the latest art progress for Sonic the Hedgehog.
Then the door to his office suddenly burst open.
"Executive Director!"
It was his secretary, her usual calm expression replaced by panic. She clutched a freshly printed fax in trembling hands.
"Something terrible has happened!"
Takuya frowned and took the still-warm fax paper. The moment his eyes landed on the headline, his cheerful mood vanished—wiped out like a flame doused in ice water.
The newspaper headline screamed in massive black letters:
"Serial Child Abduction and Murder Suspect Tsutomu Miyazaki Confesses to All Charges!"
The article described in gruesome detail how the police had discovered nearly six thousand videotapes in the suspect's home—many of them containing anime, special effects shows, and even recordings of his own crimes.
Line by line, the media narrative began weaving together terms like "anime," "manga," and "videotapes" with the name of a monstrous killer—binding them tightly, inseparably, in the public's imagination.
A storm was coming.
A storm that threatened to swallow the entire subculture of Japan.
Takuya set the fax down, his expression turning grave.
He had known that this day might come, but when the wave finally hit, its suffocating pressure was far greater than he had imagined.
Then came the phone call.
The first was from Toshio Suzuki.
"Nakayama-san!" Suzuki's voice cracked through the receiver, hoarse and panicked. The background was chaos. "Have you seen the news? God—this is insane! Every TV station is covering it! They're painting all of us—all of us who make animation—as accomplices to a lunatic!"
The box office for Kiki's Delivery Service took an immediate hit. Parent groups were already calling for a nationwide boycott of all animated films.
"Calm down, Suzuki-san," Takuya said steadily, his voice carrying quiet authority.
"Calm down? How? Miyazaki's locked himself in his studio and won't come out! Tokuma Shoten's phone lines are exploding!"
"Then let him stay locked in," Takuya said firmly. "Right now, anything we say will be wrong. The media doesn't want truth—they want carnage. If you step out now, they'll tear you apart."
He paused, then continued in a lower, resolute tone:
"Ghibli's films are about hope and dreams. Believe in your audience. They know the difference between magic and evil. Hold your ground. This storm will pass."
Suzuki's frantic breathing softened slightly on the other end. After a few more words of reassurance, Takuya hung up.
He immediately dialed Eri Nakagawa.
"It's me," he said.
"I saw the news," she replied, her tone heavy. "My father just finished an emergency board meeting. The network's cutting down all anime airtime and launching a 'content purification review.'"
"As expected." Takuya leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples.
"What about you guys? What will Sega do?" Eri's voice was laced with worry.
To many conservatives, video games were already seen as "corrupting the youth." Now this scandal was the perfect excuse to throw the entire medium under the bus.
"Don't worry," he said calmly. "They might want to kill us with one blow—but that depends on whether I let them."
Before Eri could respond, the office door burst open again.
His father, Masao Nakayama, strode in, face dark with fury, followed by a group of visibly distressed executives.
"Takuya!"
He quickly told Eri, "I'll call you later," and hung up.
Standing tall, he faced his father and the executives.
"President. Gentlemen. Let's not panic."
One of the board members immediately stepped forward, his voice trembling with emotion.
"Executive Nakayama! The media's saying we're poisoning young minds with our games! Our stock is already dropping!"
"Yeah! And the animation projects we've sponsored—they've become radioactive!" another added.
"I say we suspend all collaborations with anime IPs immediately! Let the storm pass first!"
The meeting room erupted into chaos—voices overlapping, panic spreading.
Through it all, Takuya said nothing. He simply listened, silently, waiting.
Finally, when the noise died down and all eyes turned toward him, he spoke.
"Are you all finished?"
His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the tension like a blade.
"So, because one murderer happened to like animation, we're ready to destroy an entire creative industry?" His gaze swept across the room. "By that logic, should we also shut down every bank in Japan because some bankers embezzle money?"
"That's different!" someone objected.
"No, it isn't!" Takuya snapped, stepping forward, his tone sharp and commanding. "A criminal is a criminal. Art is art. The media's chasing blood for headlines, and the public's lost in fear. But us—leaders of this industry—are we going to lose our minds too?"
"Now is not the time to retreat!"
He scanned the room, voice ringing with conviction.
"I know what everyone's feeling right now—panic, anger, helplessness. But I didn't call this meeting so we could sit here and complain."
He leaned forward, eyes burning with resolve.
"The media and the public need a target. And we—anime, manga, games—are the biggest, easiest one they can find. If we don't draw our own boundaries and set our own standards, someone else will do it for us. And when they do, it'll be a cage."
"Society needs entertainment and culture. As long as we make it clear what's acceptable and what isn't, they won't lump us together with the filth. Don't forget—this moral crusade might also be fueled by jealousy. Traditional entertainment industries have been losing profits to us for years. It's not hard to imagine they'd seize this chance to strike back."
The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling in.
"That's why," Takuya declared, his voice rising, "we must form our own self-regulatory organization!"
"Anime, manga, and games should each establish independent review boards—then unite under a shared rating system!"
"We'll clearly label every work: 'All Ages,' '15+,' '18+.' We'll invite respected figures—people known for their integrity—to oversee the process. We'll make it crystal clear to parents and the public what's for children and what's not."
"Just like the film industry has its own Motion Picture Code."
"At the same time, we'll release a joint statement—publicly condemning and rejecting any works that sexualize children. We'll cut that filth out of our industry completely."
"It may never disappear entirely, but at the very least, we'll keep it where it belongs—down in the sewers."
"This isn't just self-preservation. It's how we protect our right to define our own industry."
Silence fell again.
Every executive in the room stared at him, stunned.
In the face of what could have been the industry's ruin, the young man standing before them had found a way forward.
Then, someone started clapping.
A single, hesitant pair of hands—then another.
And in moments, the room erupted in applause—fierce, unrestrained, echoing through the hall like wildfire.
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