Chapter 7: When Greed is Necessary
The workplace is a series of choices—correct ones lead to success, while wrong ones result in stagnation. Murakami Iori sat deep in thought, her delicate brows knitting together and relaxing repeatedly as she wrestled with the decision. After what felt like an eternity, during which her coffee grew cold, she finally looked up and asked, "Chihara-san, what are your conditions?"
She had made her choice. Chihara Rinto's analysis aligned with the current state of the television industry, his theory was novel yet plausible, and the proposal was solid enough to risk her career on. As a woman, she was inherently at a disadvantage in this male-dominated field. Competing head-on for prime time slots would be an uphill battle. Instead, this promising proposal and script could serve as her ticket to gamble on an overlooked late-night slot.
She wasn't aiming for miracles or sky-high ratings—just a modest improvement over the current late-night average would suffice. If she could achieve even that, it would validate her abilities and pave the way for future opportunities. A 3% rating? That alone would feel like a small miracle.
With her decision made, she pushed forward—but not without caution. Having spent years navigating the professional world, her naivety had long since evaporated. Chihara Rinto hadn't approached her out of altruism; he'd presented her with an intriguing script and a polished proposal, expecting something in return. This unspoken transaction was clear: Chihara Rinto offered the project, and she owed him whatever reward he sought.
Thus, she had to ask. Simply thanking him and walking away would brand her as clueless in his eyes.
When Chihara Rinto heard her question, he felt vindicated in choosing her as his target. Unlike many women who might hesitate over trivial decisions, she cut straight to the point. Without hesitation, he stated firmly, "I want to be the sole screenwriter for the production."
Greed, when tempered wisely, was simply ambition—a bold move toward victory. He had no intention of sharing credit or diluting his reputation by working alongside others. One successful project would cement his entry into this semi-closed circle of television professionals. Whether he stayed at TEB or sought new opportunities elsewhere, proving himself now would make future endeavors far easier.
A proven talent naturally attracted mentors, while those who failed to seize opportunities remained stuck pulling carts. Reputation was his lifeline—it was how he intended to sustain himself and climb the ladder. And he aimed to secure every ounce of recognition, leaving no room for doubt or dispute.
Murakami Iori blinked in surprise, hesitating before asking, "Chihara-san, perhaps you're unfamiliar with TV production processes. It's rare for a single screenwriter to handle an entire series, especially given the weekly episode format. Can you realistically manage the workload alone?"
Not wanting him to misinterpret her concern, she quickly added, "Of course, if the proposal is approved, you'd naturally be the head writer. But foregoing assistant writers altogether…"
Television production in Japan had evolved significantly since its early days of live broadcasts with minimal scripts, akin to modern skits relying heavily on improvisation. Over decades, roles had become highly specialized. For instance, in a twelve-episode season, the head writer typically drafted outlines, set the tone with episodes one and two, ensured narrative consistency with episodes five and six, and finalized the story's thematic payoff with episodes eleven and twelve. The remaining episodes were delegated to sub-writers, with dedicated dialogue specialists refining lines as needed.
Having worked her way up from production clerk to assistant producer over four or five years, Murakami Iori had never encountered a screenwriter eager to shoulder all these responsibilities alone. More common were producers desperately pleading for delayed scripts, only to receive excuses like:
"Sorry, it's almost done."
"I need just a bit more time to revise."
"I'm reconsidering some elements."
"Please, grant me another extension."
Such pleas were routine, sometimes escalating to threats of violence in moments of frustration—though always empty ones.
As for Chihara Rinto claiming everything was already written, she found that hard to believe. The episodic nature of Japanese dramas allowed for mid-production adjustments based on audience feedback, and premature cancellations due to poor ratings were not uncommon. Writing everything in advance risked irrelevance, rendering months of effort obsolete.
She feared his youthful arrogance might lead to overpromising, so she gently advised against it. But Chihara Rinto stood firm. "Murakami-san, this is my only condition."
Salary and benefits didn't concern him; once inside the production team, Murakami Iori would ensure he was well-fed, lest his productivity suffer. What mattered most was securing this chance to shine—to establish himself as an independent screenwriter behind a hit show. On this point, he refused to budge. Sharing credit with seasoned sub-writers posed risks he preferred to avoid.
Even if unlikely, conflicts over contributions weren't worth the gamble. At worst, he could persist for another week and seek out a different junior producer. Established names were inaccessible—they were swamped and loyal to their existing teams anyway.
Moreover, he played it safe. His proposal and scripts were registered with the Screenwriters Guild. Post-war Japan prioritized two policies: agricultural self-sufficiency and technological advancement. While the former inflated vegetable prices, the latter fostered innovation through stringent copyright protections. Even karaoke bars paid royalties per song performed. Should Murakami Iori attempt to steal his work, the consequences would devastate her career. Plagiarism was taboo in this industry; Chihara Rinto knew better than to copy blindly without confirming this was a parallel universe. Works published decades earlier could still haunt unwary creators.
His insistence left Murakami Iori unsure how to respond. She admired his talent and vision but found his demand challenging. Picking up her now-cold coffee cup, she hesitated before setting it down again. Lowering her gaze, she probed cautiously, "What if you can't keep up with the shooting schedule?"
Handling multiple roles simultaneously seemed implausible. Writing wasn't akin to pulling carrots—it required time and focus.
"If we need sub-writers later, I won't object," Chihara Rinto replied reasonably. He was confident in his ability to deliver.
Relieved, Murakami Iori smiled warmly and extended her hand. "Then we have a deal, Chihara-san. I'll start refining the proposal tomorrow and aim to submit it soon."
She planned to include market analysis, target demographics, budget estimates, and resource requirements—none of which posed significant challenges.
Chihara Rinto concealed his urgency beneath a composed exterior. Shaking her hand, he sealed their mutually beneficial agreement with a smile. "I'm looking forward to working with you!"
However, his financial situation gnawed at him. The original Chihara Rinto hadn't paid next year's rent, and December was already here. Unable to resist, he pressed, "How soon might we hear back?"
Murakami Iori calculated silently. With TEB expanding its satellite channel lineup, there was high demand for new programs—a fortunate coincidence aligning perfectly with her ambitions. Smiling, she assured him, "We should know within three days. Given the novelty of this proposal, I believe approval is likely."
This concept was unlike anything she'd seen before, and she suspected the programming committee would share her enthusiasm.
"Then I'll await your call in three days. Here's my apartment management office's number," Chihara Rinto said, ensuring they agreed on timelines and exchanged contact details.
If this fell through, he'd scout another network and pitch anew.
Murakami Iori handed him her business card, noting her office and pager numbers, then gathered the scripts. Glancing at the café clock nearing nine o'clock, she realized further discussion wasn't feasible tonight. Eager to refine the proposal and submit it promptly, she signaled her departure. Time was of the essence in the workplace.
Chihara Rinto understood immediately. Rising politely, he reached for his wallet and smiled. "It's late. Let's not delay you further, Murakami-san. We can discuss details once the proposal is approved."
Until then, further conversation was moot. He prepared to pay, unwilling to compromise his gentlemanly demeanor despite his strained finances. To his surprise, Murakami Iori also pulled out her wallet. "Let's split the bill," she suggested cheerfully.
After a brief exchange of courtesies, he relented, impressed by her insistence. Internally, he mused: This Murakami-san truly embodies equality. She refuses conventional privileges, unlike the hypocritical feminists of the 21st century who demand perks but flee responsibility.
They settled their tabs separately and exited the café. A slight breeze prompted Murakami Iori to shiver. Turning to Chihara Rinto, she advised, "Looks like rain. Head home soon and stay warm."
Already stepping into her role as producer, she worried about her screenwriter falling ill. Writers, though often overlooked, were foundational to any drama—like the bedrock beneath a house. Without them, even skilled builders would be left waiting.
Chihara Rinto nodded gratefully, watching her depart before heading home himself. Things were proceeding smoother than expected. Perhaps in three days, his first job would materialize.