October 27, 1988.
The Tokyo sky was a dazzling, almost unreal blue.
This autumn felt hotter than usual, and not just from the weather. It was the money — the Nikkei had smashed another record high, and the air in Ginza was thick with expensive French perfume and the ink-smell of fresh banknotes.
Marunouchi, 12:15 PM.
The streets were a battlefield.
"Empty cab! Empty!"
Shinichi Tanaka stood at the curb waving three 10,000-yen bills, trying to flag down a taxi. The back of his Armani suit was already damp with sweat.
A cab slowed, the driver eyed the money in Tanaka's hand, then glanced at the man beside him holding up five fingers — 50,000 yen for a ride — and hit the gas.
"Damn it!"
Tanaka stamped his foot and checked his gold Rolex.
As a section chief at Mitsubishi Corporation, fresh off a fat autumn bonus, he wasn't planning to cut corners today. He'd wanted top-tier tempura in Ginza, but that Michelin French place was booked solid until next month.
So he'd settled for a high-end spot a friend swore by — no star yet, but "just as good." He'd been standing here twenty minutes and hadn't even touched a door handle.
His pager shrieked.
Tanaka looked down. His expression tightened.
One o'clock.
Forty minutes. Ginza was impossible. Queuing anywhere was impossible.
"Am I going to this meeting hungry?"
Tanaka tugged his tie loose, irritated, and scanned the street.
His eyes stopped on a sign flashing orange, green, and red — 7-Eleven.
A year ago, an elite like him eating convenience store food would've been an insult. Today, hunger and a deadline forced the compromise.
"Wait…"
He remembered the blitz of ads on TV and in magazines — the "Gokujō Series," the pitch about Hokkaido-sourced ingredients.
"If I have to eat convenience store food," Tanaka muttered, straightening his jacket as he crossed the street, "then I'll eat the best."
The automatic doors slid open. A rush of cold, clean air hit him, cutting the street's heat and exhaust.
"Welcome~"
The clerk's bow was crisp — clearly trained. The posture would pass muster with Tanaka's own department.
Inside, it was quiet. The floor shone like a mirror, reflecting shelves where every label was squared to the millimeter. Products were arranged like art pieces.
Tanaka ignored the regular bento and went straight for the fresh-food core.
Black velvet lined the section. Rows of hand-rolled rice balls sat under spotlights, their packaging gleaming.
400 yen.
For a rice ball.
Unthinkable a few years ago. But in a Tokyo where coffee ran 800 yen, the price felt… correct. Not cheap enough to be suspicious, not expensive enough to be absurd. Just enough to signal "taste."
"That one."
Tanaka picked it up. The washi paper was textured, premium. The weight was light — not the dense, machine-pressed brick you expected. He grabbed a 500-yen bottle of high-grade oolong too.
Paid. Tore the wrap open.
No shredded nori mess. S-Food's tear-tab worked perfectly.
He stepped into the smoking area under the office tower and took a small bite.
Crunch.
Ariake Sea first-harvest nori shattered cleanly. Then the rice — each grain distinct, with a slight airiness that mimicked hand-forming. The sweetness of Hokkaido Yumepirika new rice spread on his tongue, then the sujiko burst: salty, oceanic, rich.
"Mmm…"
Tanaka closed his eyes and exhaled.
It was shockingly close to the last course he'd had at a high-end Akasaka restaurant.
He wasn't eating "convenience store food." He was eating "Gokujō." The best.
He glanced at the poster by the entrance. Hot-stamped black text:
"Ultimate Deliciousness, Close at Hand."
Tanaka dropped the wrapper in the bin, checked his watch, and rejoined the gray river of elites with his stride confident again.
**4:30 PM.
Setagaya Ward, Sakurashinmachi.**
The air here was different from Marunouchi. If Marunouchi was a money battlefield, this was daily life's proving ground.
It was a wealthy ward, but only if you owned assets. For salary families, this year's inflation was brutal. Cabbage had hit 300 yen a head. Even discounted eggs meant queuing.
Miyoko pedaled her new "mama-chari" to a stop outside the Lawson on the corner. The basket was full of discount toilet paper she'd snagged at the supermarket.
The storefront was loud and cheerful. Cardboard boxes stacked at the entrance. Banners screamed: "Massive Size!" "Direct from Farm!" "Fight Inflation!"
Miyoko locked her bike, grabbed a shopping bag, and went in.
She bypassed the snacks and went straight to fresh produce.
Wicker baskets held onions and potatoes that still smelled of soil. They weren't pretty — some were knobby, what they called "Grade B" — but the price tags made her heart lift.
"That cheap…"
Miyoko grabbed five potatoes and two onions. Tonight's curry would cost under 200 yen. In a bubble where green onions were luxury goods, this was salvation for housewives.
She moved to bento.
Her growing son complained he was always hungry. Normal portions didn't cut it, and pork cutlet rice outside was 800 yen now.
Her eyes locked on a huge clear container.
Rice piled like a small mountain. A palm-wide pork cutlet, golden and thick. Curry sauce threatening to overflow.
Miyoko lifted it. Heavy. Substantial.
"This."
She set it in her basket, satisfied.
At checkout, the cashier bagged it with practiced speed. Miyoko glanced at the poster behind the register — a giant bowl graphic and the words:
"Your Family Kitchen and Energy Supply Station."
She stepped out into the orange-red sunset.
A new Mercedes roared past, kicking up leaves. Miyoko didn't feel envy. She hooked the heavy bag on her handlebars and pushed off hard.
In an era of runaway prices, feeding her family for less — that was her victory.
**6:00 PM.
Shibuya, Kōen-dōri.**
Neon bled the sky purple.
The FamilyMart doors chimed. "Ding-dong."
Naomi and Aiko walked in laughing, school skirts shortened, backpacks covered in charms. They were holding crepes they'd just queued for.
"Heard Maharaja's got a special event tonight?"
"Really? But entry's five thousand yen."
"So? I've got allowance. Dad said stocks are up again. Spend freely."
"Wow — jealous! Treat me?"
"Hmm… come to my room and game with me tonight, and I'll treat you~"
They chatted about sums that would stun most adults, then stepped into the trend-soaked store.
Tatsuro Yamashita's Ride On Time played overhead — peak City Pop, the cheerful beat making you want to sway.
The lighting was layered and moody. It didn't look like a convenience store. It looked like a little select shop. Shelves were curated. Pop Art prints hung on the walls.
They skipped bento and rice balls and went straight to the chiller.
Rows of desserts sat like jewelry.
The clear cup had sleek geometric patterns straight out of a Seibu Department Store catalog. Golden pumpkin pudding under a cap of white cream, with a single dark-green pumpkin seed catching the light.
"Kawaii!"
Naomi held it up to her cheek and posed against the store's mirrored wall.
"Aiko, photo! Get the logo behind me — this is a Seibu collab!"
"Okay… look… OK!"
Aiko raised a Polaroid plastered with stickers. Click. White-edged paper slid out.
She shook it. The image came up, slightly soft.
"It's cute!"
Naomi hugged Aiko, rubbing cheeks.
"…Stop, Naomi…"
They grabbed a weird rice ball too — .
"Pasta in a rice ball? Trying it?"
"It's cheap. And the wrapper's pink. So cute."
They took their snacks and loitered by the magazines, flipping through the new anan while planning next week's ski trip.
By the register, a standee read in artistic script:
"You, and a Distinctive Lifestyle."
...
**Night.
Bunkyō Ward, Hongō.
University of Tokyo Faculty of Science, Integrated Research Building, Lab 404.**
No Shibuya noise here. No Marunouchi glamour. Fluorescent lights made the lab feel cold. Server racks hummed, a low, constant drone.
Tokyo's night sky glowed outside — searchlights and neon like a dream that never ended.
But Emi Suzuki wasn't looking out the window.
She sat at a bench buried in cables, circuit boards, and English papers. Her glasses reflected the blue of a computer screen.
Her hair was messy. Her expensive S-Collection jacket was slung over a chair, swapped for a fresh lab coat.
"TCP/IP protocol suite packet header checksum…"
She muttered, fingers flying over the keyboard.
A cold rice ball sat at the corner of her desk.
It was 7-Eleven's "Gokujō Series" — made with the Hokkaido new rice that Section Chief Tanaka had just savored.
She'd taken one bite. Now it was just cold.
Emi reached out, took another mechanical bite. She didn't taste "ultimate deliciousness." To her, it was carbohydrates. Fuel to keep her brain running.
Her eyes were locked on a printed notice beside her.
Satsuki had given her that entry ticket.
It was her only ladder into the "Network World" — bigger and more real than the Bubble Economy outside.
It was her only way to stay by Satsuki-chan's side.
If she failed, she and Satsuki would live in different worlds. And losing the value of "being needed by Satsuki" was the thing Emi feared most.
"I cannot lose…"
Emi swallowed the cold rice. A fanatical light burned in her eyes — brighter than the neon outside.
"I absolutely cannot lose."
"Only by passing this test, only by mastering tech no one else has… can I keep standing beside Satsuki-chan."
Her hands returned to the keyboard.
The clatter echoed through the empty lab.
On this Tokyo night lit by convenience stores, some consumed. Some harvested. Some reveled.
And some quietly honed themselves in the dark, becoming the sharpest blade in the wielder's hand.