The next day, Chihara Rinto began his routine of commuting to work. While writing scripts, he observed Murakami Iori's role as producer closely. Though she rarely stayed in the production headquarters, her efficiency was evident from the steady influx of personnel. Her organizational skills were undeniable—no wonder Ishii Jiro's rejection had turned sour. Any producer would covet such a capable assistant.
First, she assembled the financial team: an experienced middle-aged accountant and a young cashier. They quickly allocated the production budget and drafted salary sheets. Under the production bureau system, staff received two salaries—a base "small wage" from the network to ensure stability during downtime, and a performance-based "large wage" from the production budget for key roles akin to white-collar positions.
Generally, the more one contributed, the higher their status and income. However, this didn't apply to Chihara Rinto. As part of the creative team under a temporary contract, his earnings flowed directly through the affiliated production company into his personal account, bypassing cash handling entirely—royalties included.
Soon after, Fujii Arima's requested assistant director and directorial aides arrived. After brief salary and schedule confirmations, they joined the crew officially. Their wages came from the production budget—a mechanism ensuring compliance. Producers like Murakami Iori could dock pay or dismiss insubordinate members, sending them back to collect dry salaries if necessary.
Prop masters, cinematographers, sound engineers, lighting technicians, and others followed suit. Fujii Arima organized teams and led them to the studio.
Chihara Rinto considered joining but hesitated, his script incomplete. For the remainder of the day, he immersed himself in writing, racing against time. By dusk, he'd finished ahead of schedule, completing his expected workload a day early.
Seeking Murakami Iori to submit his draft—and hoping to assist at the studio—he encountered her returning unexpectedly. Handing over the manuscript, he smiled, "Murakami-san, mission accomplished."
Murakami Iori had returned to check on him but hadn't anticipated his promptness. Surprised, she exclaimed, "So soon?" Late submissions were common among writers; early ones rare indeed.
Flipping through briefly, she found it satisfactory. "I'll review with Fujii-kun shortly. Thank you, Chihara-kun."
"It's my duty," he replied politely, then ventured, "Murakami-san, since I'm free now, perhaps I could help at the studio?"
Without hesitation, she declined gently. "It's chaotic there currently. The previous production left behind disarray—numerous unused partitions. We're clearing them out now, mostly manual labor. You should stay here and continue writing."
"Isn't what we have sufficient for now?"
"How about another episode?" she encouraged. Tales of the Unusual's episodic format allowed flexibility; extra material meant better quality selections.
Chihara Rinto fell silent, momentarily speechless. They'd agreed initially on two episodes—now exceeding that, she still asked for more?
His silence unnerved her slightly. Though usually amiable, his unspoken intensity carried weight. Still, she couldn't risk disrupting his creative flow by assigning menial tasks. Better to capitalize while inspiration surged than lament lost momentum later.
Changing topics, she announced, "By the way, Chihara-kun, I've assigned you an assistant to aid your work. Feel free to delegate tasks."
As she spoke, she scanned the room, puzzled. "Where is he?"
A faint voice responded, startling Chihara Rinto. "I'm here, Murakami-senpai."
Turning, he spotted a slender man in rimless glasses, roughly his age, exuding a fresh graduate's aura. Average in appearance and demeanor, nothing stood out upon inspection.
Though brought by Murakami Iori, even she seemed startled, blurting, "How long have you been here?"
The man bowed respectfully. "I've been here all along, Murakami-senpai."
After a pause, she gestured toward Chihara Rinto. "This is Chihara-sensei. You'll assist him henceforth."
To Chihara Rinto, she introduced, "This is… um…" faltering, she apologized sheepishly, "Sorry, I forgot your name momentarily…"
Unfazed, the man bowed again. "I'm Shiraki Keima, a recent graduate assigned to the production bureau. Please guide me in the future, Murakami-senpai and Chihara-sensei."
"Oh yes, Shiraki-kun! Work hard!" Murakami Iori patted his shoulder encouragingly, recalling her own journey—from grunt work to producer over four to five years. Even post-promotion, she'd directed infomercials before advancing further.
With encouragement dispensed, she handed him over to Chihara Rinto. Whether used for proofreading or fetching meals, Shiraki was now his subordinate to command freely. Under Japan's 1990s workplace norms, first-year newcomers were trainees, often treated harshly. Chihara Rinto could scold—or even hit him with manuscripts—if displeased.
Such strictness was seen as mentorship. Without his "writer" title, Chihara Rinto might resemble Shiraki—mere errand-runner fodder in his debut year.
Fearing renewed insistence on studio involvement, Murakami Iori hastily departed, leaving instructions: "Chihara-kun, remember our first production meeting in two days. Set aside half a day."
Resigned, Chihara Rinto watched her leave. Turning to Shiraki, he suspected Murakami Iori's motives—a spy to monitor his independent scripting? Understandable caution, yet assigning an assistant with nothing to do felt awkward.
After deliberation, he instructed, "Shiraki-kun, relax. I'll call if needed."
"I understand, Chihara-sensei. I won't disturb your work."
Satisfied, Chihara Rinto resumed writing. Over the next day and a half (excluding sleep), he completed two additional story drafts while covertly documenting memories from his original world. Progress remained steady.
By his third day in the production office, he noticed Japan's rigid hierarchy—an omnipresent social stratification. Initially worried about ridicule due to his youth and lack of credentials as a dispatched worker, he found concerns unfounded.
Creative team members commanded universal respect regardless of age. Ordinary staff addressed him reverently as "Chihara-sensei." Even lunch differed—his premium bento contrasted starkly with the standard fare for the accountant, cashier, and two female clerks sharing the conference room.
Despite potential uproar elsewhere, these women accepted disparities without complaint. Tea service prioritized him, accompanied by polite deference. Interactions outside mirrored this reverence—bows and yielding passage commonplace.
Hierarchies extended subtly—the accountant enjoyed perks distinct from the cashier and clerks. Nuances abounded, perplexing yet ingrained.
Unaccustomed but resigned, Chihara Rinto adapted. Stretching after organizing drafts, a voice interrupted: "Chihara-sensei, it's time for the meeting with Murakami-senpai. Shall we proceed?"
Startled, he turned. "You are…?"
"Your assistant, Shiraki Keima."
Recalling vaguely, he queried, "Have you been here the entire time?"
"Yes, continuously."
Reflecting, Chihara Rinto acknowledged his earlier instruction to be summoned when needed. Shiraki's diligence made sense. Curious, he probed, "Did you watch me write?"
Eyes gleaming, Shiraki adjusted his glasses earnestly. "Yes, attentively monitoring Chihara-sensei's needs… Your talent astounds me. Such dedication—writing even during breaks, crafting poetry and songs effortlessly publishable—is truly admirable."
Speechless, Chihara Rinto realized Shiraki had remained silent throughout, unnoticed despite proximity. With such stealth, commercial espionage seemed a better career choice than television.
Thankfully, recalled content remained innocuous—poetry alone. Carelessness nearly exposed deeper secrets. Caution warranted moving forward…
Wait!
Anxiously, he inquired, "Shiraki-kun, you didn't follow me home, did you?"
The thought of waking to find a man kneeling bedside, gazing adoringly, transformed workplace drama into horror. Unacceptable. This assistant had to go.