Murakami Iori was exceedingly polite—perhaps a reflection of the challenges faced by women in Japan's 1990s workplace. Despite her busy schedule, she intended to escort Chihara Rinto out before attending to her tasks, as their paths coincided anyway, causing minimal delay.
They rode the elevator down to the first-floor lobby, with Murakami Iori discussing miscellaneous details: "I'll assign you an assistant to help with errands—you're new here, after all. Also, I'll draft a schedule so you know when production meetings are and can plan your writing accordingly…"
Her meticulousness was evident. Chihara Rinto had little to add, nodding along, when a familiar voice called out: "What a coincidence! Isn't that Producer Murakami?"
The voice carried a magnetic quality, its politeness undercut by faint mockery. Chihara Rinto turned, his brow furrowing slightly. Approaching swiftly was a man in his early thirties, impeccably dressed in a bespoke three-piece suit. Trailing behind him was none other than Kondo Airi, his "ex-girlfriend."
Though he'd anticipated this encounter, it still irked him. A man of meticulous planning, he detested unforeseen variables—the kind Kondo Airi excelled at creating. He craved a world running like clockwork: precise, predictable. Alas, reality refused cooperation.
Murakami Iori paused briefly, bowing respectfully. "Good day, Ishii-senpai."
Ishii arrived, exuding a veneer of senior amiability. Yet his actions betrayed him—he slapped Murakami Iori's shoulder firmly, testing the padding's resilience, and chuckled. "So that's why you declined my assistant offer—it seems you had plans all along. Still…" His smile turned sly. "Late-night dramas aren't exactly prestigious. I never expected someone as capable as you, Murakami-san, to make such a misstep."
Murakami Iori forced a smile. "Late-night shows are still necessary for the station. Someone has to handle them."
"So that's how you see it," Ishii mused. "Passing up a prime-time producer assistant role for a show no one watches… Hmm, what's airing now? The previous producer couldn't wait to wrap things up and flee to satellite channels, right? Wasn't he demoted there after some blunder? What was his show called again? Sorry, I've never paid attention. Oh, but didn't it peak at 1.1% ratings?"
"It was Producer Taketa's Terror Ward. We'll take over their slot…"
Ishii waved dismissively. "Who cares? No need to elaborate." Turning back with feigned curiosity, he pressed, "Murakami, do you really think you can handle the responsibilities of a producer? It's not as easy as you might imagine—even most men struggle."
This was undeniably true. The role entailed endless minutiae, labyrinthine relationships, unpredictable stress, and resentment from overworked subordinates—all factors prone to emotional breakdowns. Moreover, in 1990s Japan, 99% of producers were men, even for programs targeting housewives. Women typically served in supportive roles.
Yet Ishii's timing made his remarks unmistakably provocative.
Murakami Iori inhaled deeply, maintaining deference. Bowing slightly, she murmured, "I'm prepared, senpai. I'll do my best."
"Good luck then!" Ishii patted her shoulder again, smirking meaningfully. "If you regret your decision, feel free to come find me. Though the terms won't be as generous as last time—you understand."
Without waiting for a response—or acknowledging Chihara Rinto—Ishii strode off, Kondo Airi trailing silently behind. She hadn't uttered a word throughout, keeping her gaze lowered, likely tense.
Her star was rising rapidly, poised for breakout success. Avoiding eye contact with Chihara Rinto, she feared any mishap. Suspicious of Murakami Iori's involvement, she assumed Chihara Rinto had manipulated this "foolish woman"—a useless, rigid personality seemingly tailor-made for him.
Still, she didn't care. Better him than clinging to her. She dreaded the thought of him surfacing during future interviews, boasting about their past relationship or intimacies—a scandalous nightmare.
The mere thought gave her headaches, yet solutions eluded her. Sleepless nights plagued her; for now, pretending invisibility sufficed.
Youthful naivety and shallow materialism had blinded her—she regretted those designer handbags profoundly.
---
Only after Ishii disappeared did Murakami Iori raise her head. Chihara Rinto, team-oriented, had considered interjecting in support. However, Murakami Iori subtly tugged his sleeve, fearing his youthful impulsiveness might provoke unnecessary conflict. Thus, he remained silent, though inwardly seething. Ishii's insinuations—that women were unfit for producing, that Murakami Iori was overreaching—were infuriating.
He asked bluntly, "Who is he?"
Even in Japan, where seniors freely critiqued juniors, Ishii's condescension felt excessive, exposing latent workplace sexism. No wonder Japan was labeled semi-feudal and semi-capitalist into the early 2000s—evidently, the 1990s were worse.
As they exited, Murakami Iori quickly regained composure, accustomed to such treatment. Smiling faintly, she explained, "That's Ishii Jiro. His father is the station's managing director."
Ah, a second-generation elite—explaining his arrogance. Chihara Rinto probed further, "He invited you?"
"Yes, over a month ago. He wanted me to quit my current role and become his assistant. But his reputation… isn't great, nor is he easy to work with. Plus, he made some… inappropriate requests. I declined, and I suspect he harbors resentment."
Her tone carried resignation. She'd avoided Ishii Jiro whenever possible. Fortunately, his base was Chitanda's production facility—a newer, larger complex featuring a river, lake, artificial forest, Edo-period architecture, and even a decorative castle on a nearby hill. Essentially Japan's answer to Hengdian World Studios, ideal for historical dramas.
Unfortunately, within the same department, encounters were inevitable. Today's meeting likely stemmed from Ishii returning to headquarters.
Chihara Rinto nodded silently, surmising Ishii's motives. Perhaps romantic interest rejected had wounded his pride, or genuine admiration turned sour upon refusal. Regardless, prying further risked embarrassment. Instead, he queried, "How are his show's ratings?"
"It hasn't aired yet. Scheduled for January, but casting popular actors complicates scheduling, hence the early start."
"What about past performances?"
"Above average. His abilities are… mixed." Murakami Iori, ever diplomatic despite her distaste, hesitated. "But his screenwriter is a veteran, and his director is top-tier."
Chihara Rinto understood. Another beneficiary of nepotism, starting life's race halfway through. Yet competence mattered more than connections. Based on Ishii's demeanor, the halfway wouldn't suffice.
Such individuals barely registered on his radar. Even without his transmigration advantage, he held them in contempt. Rarely did they maximize their advantages. Smiling confidently, he declared, "Then let's beat him soundly, give him a lesson in humility, and prove Murakami-san's producing prowess. Maybe he'll learn to speak politely next time."
Murakami Iori paused, a genuine smile of amusement softening her features. Taking Chihara Rinto's jest as a gesture of reassurance, she allowed herself a brief moment of levity, her lips curling into a coy grin. Still, the reality of their situation lingered in her mind. Ishii's show aired in coveted time slots, with ratings starting at a solid 15%. How could they possibly compete? For their own production, even matching the single-digit ratings of Ishii's reruns would feel like a victory worth celebrating.
Realistically, any comparison could only be made against past late-night dramas. Given their modest budget and limited crew, surpassing the highest ratings of those previous shows would already leave her satisfied. She knew better than to let unrealistic expectations take root—hope too large only invited greater disappointment.
She appreciated Chihara Rinto's gesture, masking her gratitude with professionalism. "Ignore them—they won't affect us. Focus on our work."
"You're absolutely right, Murakami-san," Chihara Rinto agreed, already dismissing the matter. Judging by Kondo Airi's reaction, she feared revisiting past grievances as much as he did. Likely, peace would prevail. Best to focus on work—strength spoke louder than words. In television, ratings reigned supreme.
In 2019, wielding even a 3%-rated program granted clout unimaginable. Station chiefs would pamper you daily; executives couldn't even get near you.
Reaching the entrance, he declined Murakami Iori's continued escort, departing alone. Yet reflections lingered: no wonder Murakami Iori maintained such humility. Many likely shared Ishii's sentiments, albeit less brazenly expressed. Women should assist, not aspire higher.
Perhaps many awaited her downfall eagerly.
Murakami Iori was unfortunate, born in the wrong era. Transplanted to 1990s China, she might have wept tears of joy, transforming into an iron-fisted powerhouse, feared and reviled alike.
She deserved better than tiptoeing through life. A pity indeed.