Since the other party was being so cooperative, Toho, as the senior player in the Japanese film industry, couldn't afford to seem petty.
"Toho appreciates your sincerity," Sato said with a warm smile, his scrutinizing gaze replaced by a genial expression of shared prosperity. "Since our goals align, we can certainly discuss further collaboration within the theaters."
He turned to his subordinate in charge of theater management. "At the flagship theaters in Hibiya, Shinjuku, and Shibuya, clear out the prime real estate in the lobbies that's currently used for popcorn and drink promotions."
The subordinate hesitated. "Director, those spaces are—"
"Clear them out," Sato repeated firmly, tapping his finger on the desk. "Allocate them to Sega for demo areas and to Bandai for model display cabinets. Place them along the ticket-checking queue so audiences will see them while waiting in line."
A glint of satisfaction flashed in the Sega representative's eyes. This was precisely the coveted resource that Executive Director Nakayama had repeatedly emphasized the need to secure.
"Also," Sato added after a moment's thought, "we can give you half of the lightbox next to the ticket window for posting posters. Since it's Dinosaur Storm, let's make this storm even fiercer!"
This was the embodiment of top-tier commercial mutual promotion.
Sega and Bandai spent several tens of millions of yen on GG fees to secure access to Japan's most precise offline marketing channel.
Meanwhile, Toho gained two powerful promotional allies without spending a single yen.
July 12th, evening.
Takuya Nakayama had just put Kazuki to bed.
He stood by the floor-to-ceiling window in the study, having just checked the progress report for the first screening theater's preparations on the computer beside him. He was now shutting it down.
The progress was as expected.
But this calm wouldn't last until ten o'clock that night.
The TV in the living room, which had been playing a variety show, suddenly flashed. NHK's distinctive emergency news alert pierced the air.
"Breaking news. At approximately 10:17 PM tonight, a strong earthquake struck the southwestern coast of Hokkaido—"
Eri, who had been reading a fashion magazine, froze instantly.
Both of them stared at the screen. The footage shook violently before cutting to Okushiri Island.
The scene was hellish—flames raging across the pitch-black sea, wreckage strewn across the tsunami-stricken landscape, fishing boats tossed onto rooftops.
"A Richter scale 7.8," they gasped simultaneously.
Takuya's expression darkened. As a transmigrator, he had a vague, hazy recollection of this disaster, but the impact of seeing the horrific, real-time footage unfold before him was still overwhelming.
On Okushiri Island, a massive fire in the Aonae District raged, fueled by the sea breeze, devouring the survivors' homes.
"Turn the TV volume up," Takuya said, sitting up straight on the sofa.
On the screen, the news anchor spoke rapidly: "Partial ground subsidence has occurred on Okushiri Island, and the tsunami warning was not issued in time—"
Over the next few days, a gloomy low-pressure system seemed to blanket the entire Japanese archipelago.
Comedians' antics were replaced on television by endless reports of aftershocks and lists of casualties.
The tsunami warning system's failure became the target of public criticism, and the Meteorological Agency was roundly condemned. Yet this painful lesson forced the country to begin reevaluating its outdated disaster prevention systems.
In schools, children who had been discussing plans to see Dinosaur Storm at the movies were now being organized by their teachers to repeatedly practice ducking under their desks.
Instead of gossiping, neighborhood women busied themselves checking their emergency kits for expired canned goods.
"Save your own life"—this harsh-sounding phrase became the headline on newspaper front pages across the country.
On Wednesday evening, Takuya Nakayama went to the convenience store near his home to buy cigarettes.
The atmosphere in the store was stifling, with the cashier mechanically scanning barcodes.
Just then, the store's announcement system switched to a song.
As the intro began, the previously stagnant air seemed to stir.
"Don't give up (Don't give up)/ Just a little more (Just a little more)/ Run to the very end (Please run to the very end) ——"
Izumi Sakai's clear and powerful voice pierced through the noisy hum of the convenience store's refrigerators.
A middle-aged office worker in front of him, who had been staring blankly at a newspaper article about earthquake casualties, felt a slight tremor in his shoulders when he heard those lyrics.
He took a deep breath, stuffed the newspaper into his briefcase, and straightened his back.
Takuya Nakayama watched this scene, feeling a pang in his heart.
This song, originally written to encourage college entrance exam candidates, had become popular once before during the economic downturn following the burst of the bubble. Now, in this summer of devastation, it had been given new meaning.
It was like an invisible hand, catching the nation's plummeting morale.
This ZARD song was on its way to becoming something like a national anthem.
"Total is 320 yen," the cashier announced.
Takuya Nakayama paid, opened his cigarette pack, and walked to the designated smoking area outside the store.
Across the street, the TV wall in the electronics store window—previously showing Jurassic Park trailers—now uniformly broadcast NHK's special program: footage of the Self-Defense Forces rescuing a survivor from the ruins of Okushiri Island.
The background music was none other than "Don't Give Up."
Takuya Nakayama lit his cigarette and took a deep drag.
The disaster would pass, and life had to go on.
He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, grinding it out deliberately and slowly.
Staring at the children on the TV screen, huddled under their desks with cushions, a sudden thought struck him.
Not for profit, but for something more tangible: muscle memory.
For gamers, their fingers can press buttons before their brains even register the on-screen prompt.
What if we applied this reflex mechanism to disaster escape scenarios?
Current disaster drills are too dull, and children's exercises often devolve into a perfunctory walkthrough with giggles.
But what if we turned it into a game, like "Fire Escape Master" or "Earthquake Survival Guide," using Sega's signature Quick Time Event (QTE) system to simulate furniture collapsing due to aftershocks, finding shelter, and even basic first aid bandaging?
Players would be forced to internalize essential safety procedures like "turn off the gas," "pull the circuit breaker," "open the main gate," and "protect your head" under the pressure of a countdown, etching these life-saving actions into their very bones.
Takuya pulled out his ever-present notebook from his suit jacket pocket. Under the dim yellow glow of the convenience store sign, he scribbled down: "Disaster Simulation Project," "Non-profit," "Dual-platform for handhelds and home consoles."
He paused, drew a circle beside it, and wrote "1995" before darkening it with a heavy stroke.
Two years later, the Great Hanshin Earthquake, powerful enough to destroy Kobe, would turn the entire Kansai region into a hell on earth.
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