Fujii Arima's personality truly shone—he had an approachable, easygoing demeanor. After exchanging pleasantries with Chihara Rinto, Murakami Iori smiled warmly and suggested, "Alright, gentlemen, let's sit down and talk."
She'd already brewed coffee during their brief introductions, gesturing for them to take their seats at the conference table. Chihara and Fujii obliged without hesitation, settling in.
Murakami Iori handed each of them a cup, holding her own as she asked cheerfully, "Fujii-kun, you wanted to meet Chihara, right? Something on your mind?"
Fujii nodded. "Indeed, there are a few things I'd like to ask Chihara."
This was his chance to make a comeback. If he ended up with an unreliable screenwriter, his career might well be over. He wasn't reassured by the fact that the producer was a young woman—though he could shoulder extra pressure for her—but also having a wild-card rookie screenwriter so young and demanding felt unsettling.
In the creative triangle of producer, director, and screenwriter, one weak link jeopardized the entire project. Two weak links? Disaster guaranteed.
He needed clarity. Ideally, adding seasoned co-writers would mitigate risks. Turning to Chihara Rinto, he politely inquired, "I heard from Murakami-san that you plan to handle all the writing yourself, avoiding additional writers unless absolutely necessary?"
"Yes, that's my sole condition," Chihara Rinto replied, tearing open a sugar packet and stirring it into his coffee. Smiling, he added, "Unless we fall behind schedule, this won't change—it's part of my agreement with Murakami-san."
"And if the script quality declines?" Fujii pressed further, more cautious than Murakami Iori, envisioning contingencies.
"To that, I can only promise my utmost effort to maintain quality. But the agreement stands—I hope you understand." Chihara Rinto's tone was sincere, yet resolute, leaving no room for negotiation. He wasn't naive enough to allow loopholes where Fujii could insert other writers under the guise of "creative input."
Trivial matters warranted compromise; core interests did not. Being overly accommodating invited exploitation—a universal truth in schools, workplaces, or anywhere else. Why should anyone respect boundaries if they came at no cost?
Chihara Rinto understood human nature well. If he couldn't stand up for himself, who would? Call Mom and Dad to save him?
When necessary, saying "no" firmly—but tactfully—was essential. Of course, context mattered. Blind stubbornness wasn't the goal.
Murakami Iori was integral to his plans, so concessions made sense to ensure mutual benefit. But Fujii Arima? Not indispensable. Asking for equal terms—or worse, embedding safeguards favoring himself—wasn't collaboration. Everyone gambled; sharing risk was key. Using someone else's stake to lower personal risk wasn't teamwork.
Though Fujii's concerns were understandable, understanding didn't equate to compromise.
Chihara Rinto's polite yet firm stance surprised Fujii. Expecting Chihara's youth and apparent humility to yield flexibility, he'd planned to dissuade him from insisting on sole screenwriting credit. Instead, he hit a wall before even starting.
Fujii harbored no ill intent—just unease. With his age and experience, he believed overseeing the screenplay himself would be safer. Alas, that wasn't happening.
To his credit, Fujii didn't push back despite being rebuffed. After a thoughtful pause, he shifted topics: "Aside from what Murakami-san showed me, do you have any new drafts recently?"
From their brief interaction, Fujii sensed Chihara Rinto wasn't recklessly overconfident—a relief. Still, he'd intended to persuade him against sole authorship. When met with unwavering resolve, however, he chose to adapt. If the script quality varied too wildly, he'd reconsider—but for now, he decided to step back.
After all, Chihara's insistence underscored the importance of this role to him. Fujii, nearing forty and desperate for a fresh start, couldn't afford conflict. If the scripts were decent, he'd accept the arrangement.
"Yesterday, I finished one," Chihara Rinto replied smoothly, softening his tone. He pulled out a manuscript, prepared for Murakami Iori's potential "homework check," and handed it over humbly. "Please critique freely."
"Oh, quite efficient! In the creative peak, I see… Delinquent Study Group—intriguing title!" Fujii quipped lightly, flipping through the pages earnestly.
Silence filled the room as Murakami Iori and Chihara Rinto waited patiently. After a long while, Fujii exhaled deeply. "Very interesting, very well done. I can't find fault."
Of course, nitpicking was always possible, but Fujii extended goodwill. He recognized Chihara's value as a collaborator. Joining a major production team wasn't likely for him now, and Murakami Iori—with her rookie status—was his best bet.
Though his risk mitigation efforts failed, he accepted the situation. All that remained was hoping for smooth sailing.
Chihara Rinto thanked him graciously. Recognizing Fujii's cooperative spirit, he reciprocated. Though earlier requests had been denied, there was no lingering resentment—everyone had their reasons.
Murakami Iori relaxed visibly. When Fujii attempted to encroach on the screenwriter's domain, only to be gently but firmly rebuffed, she feared collapse. She couldn't intervene—if these two clashed irreconcilably, forcing them together later would doom the production.
Fortunately, both sides displayed restraint and professionalism. Hard when necessary, soft when beneficial, they maintained harmony. Mutual respect set a solid foundation for collaboration—a cause for celebration.
Seizing the moment, she interjected brightly, "Then it's settled, Fujii-kun? You're in?"
"Decided!" Fujii was decisive, pulling out a small notebook. Tearing off a page, he handed it to Murakami Iori. "I'd like these people onboard. They've worked with me for years—I vouch for their professionalism."
Glancing at the scribbled names—assistant directors, production assistants, script supervisors—Murakami Iori agreed promptly.
Under the production bureau system, every director had a trusted crew. This was normal. Similarly, head writers often brought along episode writers or assistants. But encountering a lone wolf like Chihara Rinto, refusing even assigned help, was unusual.
"No other requests then?" Fujii picked up the script again, jotting notes fervently.
While reading, he envisioned filming scenes. Several brilliant shots came to mind, which he noted immediately. Chihara Rinto's draft was a scene-based script—easier to shoot than a literary script—but still required conversion into a detailed storyboard. This was the director's second act of creation.
For instance: the protagonist exits a convenience store. A wide shot captures him, gradually zooming in with specific lighting, color grading, and music cues. Cut to a subjective perspective, revealing the surroundings. Then, a close-up of the protagonist's face conveys his emotional state—is he troubled?
Seamless transitions, meaningful content, clear storytelling, unified rhythm, and consistent style—all hallmarks of a director's skill.
Fujii Arima was pragmatic. Having committed, he dove fully into his work, recording inspirations diligently. His earlier attempt to intervene in screenwriting authority seemed forgotten—a model of workplace professionalism. Murakami Iori didn't disturb him, turning instead to Chihara Rinto.
"Chihara-kun, Tales of the Unusual premieres January 5th next year. Today's December 9th. I plan to start shooting on December 15th. Any issues with that timeline?"
Though Japanese dramas aired episodically, some buffer stock was essential. Production delays could anger viewers, causing ratings to plummet upon resumption.
Murakami Iori aimed to film two episodes upfront. This required Chihara Rinto to deliver scripts promptly—without them, progress halted.
Understanding her implication, Chihara Rinto nodded readily. "No problem. I've already drafted over one episode. I'll aim to finish another within two days."
Pleasantly surprised by such cooperation, Murakami Iori suggested, "There's a quiet inn-like lodge with excellent conditions. Shall I book you a room there?"
Chihara Rinto blinked, puzzled. "Why stay at an inn?"
Was Japanese TV production really so intense it required seclusion?
"For focused creation," Murakami Iori explained earnestly. "You won't need to worry about anything—food, lodging, everything taken care of. No distractions, serene surroundings, cute maids—it fosters inspiration."
Her last project had confined several writers to such lodges successfully. If Chihara Rinto consented, she'd gladly isolate him too, releasing him only for discussions. Otherwise, uninterrupted writing awaited.
Chihara Rinto shook his head quickly. "No, I'll stay here."
"Here?" Murakami Iori hesitated. "It's quiet now, but soon it'll get noisy. Are you sure it's suitable?"
"I'm fine. I prefer hustle and bustle."
Chihara Rinto's task involved reconstructing existing media fragments into scripts. While mentally taxing, it didn't require hair-pulling creativity like original works. He preferred proximity to observe Japan's production bureau system firsthand. Witnessing pre-production and filming processes held immense educational value.
Aspiring beyond screenwriting—to producing or directing—was common among successful writers. Despite his academic background, Chihara Rinto had never witnessed a full TV drama production. Returning to mid-'90s Japan demanded relearning outdated practices. Staying close maximized learning opportunities.
Thus, comfort took a backseat to immersion.
Murakami Iori was baffled. Introverted, stern, or neurotic screenwriters were familiar—but this desire for chaos? Producers facilitated creators' focus, fulfilling reasonable requests.
If Chihara Rinto insisted on staying, she'd comply, albeit reluctantly. Close supervision ensured productivity. If solitude stifled inspiration, she'd even rent companionship for him—from a hostess club, if necessary.
Anything for work, anything for ratings.
Resigned, she smiled faintly. "Alright, I'll arrange a desk and partition for you. If it becomes uncomfortable, let me know—I'll find another spot."
"Thank you, Murakami-san. Sorry for the trouble." Chihara Rinto appreciated her flexibility. As long as he could learn and grow, he was satisfied.
"It's nothing. Part of my job." Murakami Iori felt relieved. The creative triangle was complete, with amicable personalities ensuring smooth collaboration. Other crew members fell under her purview—any troublemakers would face consequences swiftly.
Looking around, she suggested, "Shall we call it a day?"
Chihara Rinto could return to writing, Fujii to storyboarding. Meanwhile, she faced countless tasks: assembling teams, securing finances, booking studios and equipment, scheduling post-production, finding composers, liaising with music studios—the list went on.
Fujii waved dismissively, signaling they could leave. He'd remain awhile longer, pondering undisturbed—at least, free from his wife's nagging.
Six days until shooting began. By then, his expertise would shine. For now, crafting detailed storyboards was paramount.
Murakami Iori and Chihara Rinto departed, ready to tackle their respective responsibilities…