One executive noticed his mood and walked over with a cup of coffee.
"Steven, don't pay attention to those people. Just look at how much the kids love this movie. Robin and Dustin's performances are flawless."
Spielberg looked up, his eyes carrying a trace of exhaustion and the stubbornness unique to artists.
"They're right—about some things," he sighed, gesturing toward the window. "The Neverland in my mind wasn't like this. It should have been more… real, more grand. But the technology at the time couldn't support it. A lot of ideas had to be compromised, and what we finally put on screen always feels like it's separated by a thin veil."
He felt deep regret over not being able to fully realize the vision in his head—a regret no box office figure, however high, could ever make up for.
The executive handed him the coffee and sat down beside him, speaking earnestly. "Steven, we all know you did your best. You tried a lot of new techniques in this film—many of them were completely uncharted territory. To achieve what you did, everyone is already very satisfied."
He patted Spielberg on the shoulder. "Don't get trapped in past regrets. The experience you gained this time is for your next, even greater work. Trust me—you'll do better next time. More perfectly."
"The next one…" Spielberg murmured, as if those words had flipped a switch.
He suddenly thought of Michael Crichton, and that crazy story about dinosaurs.
Crichton had told him just a few days earlier that the first draft of the script was almost finished.
A brand-new, even fiercer creative desire instantly swept away the gloom in his heart.
The technical limitations of Hook had left him burning with frustration—and that fire could be used to forge his next work.
If Neverland had been left with regrets because of technology, then next time, he would use technology to create an unprecedented world—one so real it would make people shudder.
The disappointment vanished from Spielberg's eyes, replaced by the gleam of a hunter locking onto his prey.
He stood up, casually swept the newspapers filled with negative reviews into the trash, and that uniquely confident smile of a genius returned to his face.
He was going to show the world what kind of earth-shaking miracle Steven Spielberg could create once technology no longer bound his hands and feet.
One week after Hook's release, its North American box office easily surpassed the one-hundred-million-dollar mark.
The whirlwind brought not only celebration for Sony Columbia Pictures, but also extra income that left arcade and theater owners counting cash until their hands went numb.
Sony Columbia sent a detailed report across the Pacific, from North America back to Sony's Tokyo headquarters, where it quietly landed on President Norio Ohga's desk.
"President."
Ken Kutaragi pushed open the door, ready to report on PlayStation's development progress. Following behind him was the serious-faced Teruhisa Tokunaka.
Ohga didn't look up. He simply pushed the report to the center of the desk.
"Take a look. Sega's performance this winter."
Tokunaka had already read a copy of the report, yet excitement still showed on his face.
Stepping forward, he spoke with a hint of emotion. "This completely confirms Chairman Akio Morita's philosophy—'use software to drive hardware.' Sega has just given us a priceless public lesson."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over Kutaragi, his tone growing more solemn. "Look at Nintendo, then look at Sega.
"The life or death of a new console almost entirely rests on those few launch titles. We have no existing user base. If we can't deliver games that shock the market right at launch, the PlayStation may not even reach the survival line—let alone attract third-party developers who are still on the fence."
Kutaragi picked up the report, skimmed it quickly, and nodded.
He set it down and looked straight at Ohga, his tone carrying the confidence and bluntness unique to engineers. "By the middle of next year, the SFC-CD for Nintendo will be finished. That's with me deliberately riding the brakes, feeding them some outdated technology to drag the timeline out."
A suppressed chuckle echoed in the office, tinged with the satisfaction of a plan going exactly as intended.
"As for our own PlayStation, by next autumn at the latest, we'll have a complete prototype. Its performance will be far beyond the SFC-CD."
Hearing this schedule, Ohga nodded in satisfaction, but Tokunaka's brow furrowed even tighter.
"No matter how good the hardware is, it still needs games to run on it. I've been in contact with several developers recently, and the situation isn't encouraging." He sighed, looking troubled. "The small ones lack technical depth—buying them wouldn't mean much. We'd be better off hiring talent ourselves. As for the big ones, like SNK—even though they're struggling, they're all stubborn as hell. They still believe they can turn things around on their own. They're nowhere near desperate enough to even talk."
"What's the point of buying other people's leftovers?" Ohga finally spoke, his voice calm but carrying unquestionable authority. He pulled the report back toward himself and lightly tapped the figure "$100 million" printed on it.
"Tokunaka, don't rush. We don't need to acquire anyone. We have a weapon stronger than theirs."
Kutaragi and Tokunaka both looked at him.
Ohga's gaze swept over the two men, a meaningful smile appearing at the corner of his mouth.
"We can partner with any capable third party and jointly invest in developing exclusive titles. Sony will put up most of the money. They can take most of the profits."
He leaned back in his chair, hands clasped in front of him, radiating an aura of total control.
"I don't believe there's a company in this world that can reject both Sony and yen at the same time."
Redmond, Washington—Nintendo of America headquarters.
The champagne bottle opened to celebrate first-week sales surpassing two million units still sat in the liquor cabinet like a small monument—one that now looked faintly ironic.
In the office, Minoru Arakawa stared at the latest week's sales report. The curve that had once climbed upward was now visibly flattening.
Howard Lincoln's expression was darker than the rainy sky outside.
He clenched a crumpled newspaper in his hand. The entertainment section headline blared: Hook Smashes Past $100 Million at the Box Office. The accompanying photo showed a group of kids in a movie theater, screaming with excitement around an arcade machine.
"Pulling the rug out from under us! This is goddamn pulling the rug out from under us!" Howard finally lost his composure, slamming his fist onto the desk and sending ripples through the coffee in its cup. "We were watching the stores, watching the arcades—and those bastards moved the battlefield straight into the movie theaters! Two whole weeks! What the hell were our intelligence people doing? Lining up to buy popcorn?"
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