December 5, 1988.
Port Area, Tokyo, Azabu-Juban.
Winter rain mixed with fine ice pellets drummed against the heavy copper roof of "The Club." The cold, damp air was sealed out by tightly fitted windows. Inside, only the crackling of birch logs in the fireplace and the faint hum of an air purifier broke the silence.
In the second-floor cigar room, the light was dim and murky.
Osawa Ichiro sank into a deep red leather sofa, turning an unlit Cohiba between his fingers. Restless, he kept glancing toward the television in the corner.
The screen broadcast a live session of the Japanese Parliament.
Several opposition members were shuffling toward the ballot box at an agonizing pace, pausing for several seconds with each step. The opposition had deployed their infamous delaying tactic — the "Cow Walk."
The Parliament building was in an uproar. Shouts and curses erupted one after another.
"The approval rating has dropped below 15%," Osawa Ichiro finally said, lighting his cigar. Blue-gray smoke curled upward, veiling his face, alight with naked ambition.
"The Takeshita Faction is already in chaos. Watanabe and those old-timers are scheming in ryotei every day, hunting for a scapegoat. But from where I'm sitting, this ship is already leaking everywhere."
He turned toward the young girl sitting across from him.
Saionji Satsuki wore the winter uniform of Seika Academy, a tartan wool shawl draped over her shoulders. She held a cup of warm black tea, her expression serene and detached, as if the regime crumbling on the television had nothing to do with her.
"As long as the captain is still aboard, the ship won't sink that fast," Satsuki murmured, gently blowing on the steam rising from her tea.
"But the captain is human. And humans weigh gains and losses."
"Weigh gains and losses?" Osawa frowned. "You mean Takeshita Noboru?"
"He's a typical Showa-era politician," Satsuki said, setting down her teacup. The porcelain saucer gave a crisp clink.
"He values balance, the exchange of interests, and the faction's survival. To him, politics is a business. And every business has a stop-loss line."
She lifted a slender finger and drew an imaginary line in the air.
"The Recruit scandal is already at his doorstep. Aoki Ihei is dead, and the Special Investigation Department is still digging through his backyard. Add a consumption tax bill that will infuriate every citizen in Japan..."
Satsuki smiled faintly, a smile without a trace of warmth.
"In this situation, forcing the bill through means burying the entire Takeshita Faction. Abandoning the bill and resigning would only cost him his own political life."
"If you were him, which would you choose?"
Osawa Ichiro paused, then took a deep drag on his cigar. The embers flared and dimmed.
As a political animal, he ran the scenarios in his head in seconds.
If Takeshita Noboru rammed the bill through, the Liberal Democratic Party would be massacred in next year's House of Councillors election. The Takeshita Faction would become a public enemy and might even fracture.
If he announced his resignation now, trading it for the opposition to halt their pursuit of the Recruit scandal and scrap the consumption tax bill... then the Takeshita Faction, still the largest in the party, could survive.
Where there is life, there is hope.
It was the most rational choice.
It was the only choice.
"He'll step down," Osawa Ichiro exhaled a plume of smoke, his tone certain. "He's a smart man. Smart men don't gamble their lives on a game they're bound to lose."
"Precisely," Satsuki nodded.
"Once he announces his resignation, a massive power vacuum will open inside the faction. Those young Parliament members whose careers depend on elections will desperately need a new leader — a reformer with a clean image, untainted by black money."
She met Osawa's eyes, her gaze clear and unwavering.
"Mr. Osawa, your opportunity has arrived."
Osawa Ichiro's fingers trembled slightly.
He stood and walked to the window. Outside, the rain fell harder, blurring the Tokyo nightscape into a wash of light.
In the glass, he saw his own reflection — a face full of hunger.
"I've already contacted thirty of the young up-and-comers in Parliament," Osawa said, his voice low with suppressed excitement. "The moment Takeshita Noboru yields, we'll speak out and demand a 'party renewal.' When that time comes, I'll be the one carrying the banner."
Satsuki watched his back from the sofa.
Everything was proceeding according to script.
Everyone was rational. Everyone was calculating. In this world built on numbers and exchanges, input the correct variables and you'd get the inevitable result.
Takeshita Noboru was an old fox. He knew when to cut off his tail to survive.
"Then allow me to congratulate you in advance, future... leader." Satsuki raised her teacup toward Osawa's back in a gentle salute.
At the same time.
Chiyoda Ward, Nagatacho.
Prime Minister's Official Residence.
This old Western-style building, constructed in the early Showa era, looked especially eerie in the rainy night with its red brick walls. Rumor said the February 26 Incident had taken place here, and the corridors carried a perpetual hint of mildew.
In the second-floor study, the overhead lights were off.
Only a desk lamp glowed in the corner, confining its light to a small circle on the desk.
Takeshita Noboru sat alone in a high-backed chair.
His wool cardigan was pilling, the cuffs frayed. The old man who controlled Japan's highest power looked, at this moment, like an ordinary clerk about to be laid off.
The desktop was a mess of reports, newspaper clippings, and photos of opposition members brawling for microphones in Parliament.
In the middle of the clutter sat a black velvet box.
With a withered hand, Takeshita Noboru slowly opened it.
Inside lay a fountain pen.
The barrel was black celluloid, polished to a shine from decades of use. A line of small characters was engraved on the cap, the gold lacquer long flaked away, leaving only faint indentations.
Aoki Ihei had given it to him thirty years ago.
Back then, they had been young, canvassing Shimane Prefecture for every last vote, giving speeches from truck beds, drinking with voters in izakayas.
"Prime Minister... use this pen to sign the documents that will change this country."
Aoki's voice seemed to echo in his ears even now.
Takeshita Noboru picked up the pen.
It was cold and heavy in his hand.
He took a piece of velvet from a drawer and began to wipe the barrel, slow and methodical.
Once. Twice.
His movements were mechanical, like an old man polishing his own tombstone.
Rain lashed against the glass, pitter-pattering without end.
Footsteps paced outside the study door. Probably his secretary, clutching recommendations from party elders to "postpone the tax law and prioritize calming the scandal," or perhaps a dignified draft of a resignation statement.
Takeshita Noboru ignored it.
From the bottom of the document pile, he pulled out a pre-drafted paper: Final Resolution Regarding the Consumption Tax Bill.
On the last page, the signature line was a stark, glaring blank.
He uncapped the pen.
The nib hovered over the paper.
One second.
Two seconds.
His hand began to tremble.
If he signed, he would make an enemy of all Japan and drag the entire Takeshita Faction into the abyss.
But if the consumption tax bill failed again, what would become of the country's future?
Two of his predecessors had already fallen before this bill. Prime Minister Ohira had literally worked himself to death on the campaign trail. Was this consumption tax bill truly a "Gate of Death" that killed whoever touched it? He was the third. If he failed too... He thought of the oath he'd sworn with his best friend, and of his own younger, high-spirited self.
Japan... where exactly should it go?
Ink beaded at the tip of the nib, trembling, ready to fall.
Clack.
In the end, the fountain pen slipped from his powerless fingers, rolled twice across the desk, and stopped at the edge of the document.
He had not signed.
The old man slumped back into his chair, his whole body sinking into shadow.
He stared at the ceiling, his eyes cloudy, like a dried-up well.
On this wind-swept, rain-drenched night, the man who held Japan's highest power looked weak. Vulnerable.
Like a candle about to burn out.