January 1989.
The sky over Tokyo was a sickly greyish-white.
It was the quietest winter the city had seen in decades. Most of the neon lights on the streets were extinguished, department stores had taken down their New Year's kadomatsu decorations, and the high-end clubs in Ginza that were always noisy through the night had rolled down their shutters. NHK television was broadcasting round-the-clock 'condition reports' on the Emperor's health.
A solemn, heavy atmosphere, like a thick layer of volcanic ash, settled over the heart of every Japanese person.
The final seven days of Showa Year 64.
January 6th, late at night.
Bunkyo Ward, Saionji Main Family Residence.
The heater in the living room was on full blast, yet Shuichi still felt a chill. Wearing a black wool cardigan, he knelt before the low table. In his hand was a piece of white silk, meticulously polishing the family crest brooch.
This was an accessory to be worn only for the highest-level funerals.
The television was on, volume low. On the screen, a spokesperson from the Imperial Household Agency, face grave, read out the latest blood pressure and pulse readings.
"It's coming to an end," Shuichi said, stopping his polishing and looking out at the pitch-black garden.
As a member of the Old Kazoku, he held complex feelings towards the elderly man residing deep within the Imperial Palace. That man was the figure his father and grandfather had sworn loyalty to, and the spiritual pillar of Japan's post-war recovery.
"Discussing business at a time like this feels somewhat disrespectful," Shuichi said as he placed the brooch back into its velvet box and sighed.
"Respect can be kept in the heart, Father," Satsuki replied.
Satsuki sat on the sofa opposite, a blanket over her lap, holding a freshly delivered data report.
S.A. Entertainment's Urgent Analysis Report on Recent KTV Room Usage Rates.
"The living must still breathe," she added.
She turned a page of the report, her fingertip tracing a sharply rising curve.
"The government calls for jishuku, television stations suspend entertainment programs, and concerts are canceled. Tokyo's entertainment activities have been forcibly put on pause."
Satsuki looked up. Her eyes appeared exceptionally calm in the dim light.
"But human desires don't vanish just because the Emperor is ill. The harder they are suppressed, the more violently they rebound," she said.
She handed the report to Shuichi.
"Over the past week, the late-night occupancy rate at S.A. KTV has increased by 300% compared to the same period last year."
Shuichi took the report, looking at the astonishing figures.
"Why? Everyone should be praying at home," he said.
"They have nowhere else to go," Satsuki said plainly. "They can't go dancing at discos, can't make a ruckus at izakaya, and laughing too loudly on the street will earn them disapproving glances from neighbors. This oppressive atmosphere will drive young people mad."
She pointed towards the extinguished neon lights outside the window.
"When people can't laugh out loud outside, they need to scream inside a box."
"Our soundproofed containers are now Tokyo's only refuge. They can only take off their masks and vent their emotions there."
Satsuki picked up the hot tea on the table and took a sip.
"During the jishuku period, S.A. KTV and our home video game console business will explode," she said. "Tell Itakura to arrange overtime. Deploy all the Famicom stock from the warehouse. The KTV side should launch an 'all-night exclusive booking' service. Let's call it the 'Contemplation Package.' That way, everyone can contemplate in the KTV."
Shuichi looked at his daughter.
On the eve of a national mourning period, she was calculating how much coin could be exchanged for people's displaced hormones.
It was cruel.
It was real.
January 7th, 6:33 AM.
The Showa Emperor passed away.
That turbulent, frenzied era — filled with blood and fire, glory and humiliation, cruelty and decadence — the Showa era, officially came to an end at this moment.
Afternoon.
On the live television broadcast, the then Chief Cabinet Secretary, Keizo Obuchi, dressed in black mourning attire, walked solemnly to the podium at the press conference.
He held up a white picture frame.
On it, two large characters were written in brush calligraphy:
heisei.
Shuichi sat before the television, looking at those two characters.
"Peace within, success without," he said as he took off his glasses and wiped the corner of his eye. "I hope for an era of peace."
This was his farewell to the old era and his wish for the new one.
Satsuki, sitting beside him, remained silent. She looked at the two characters as if they were the trademark of a new product about to be launched.
Heisei.
The peak of the bubble, the beginning of the collapse.
Satsuki stood up, walked to the telephone, picked up the receiver, and dialed a number.
It was the dedicated line for the overall heads of S-Collection and Uniqlo, Endo and Tadashi Yanai.
"This is Saionji," her voice cut through the dirge coming from the television. "Are you watching TV?"
"The era name has changed. The funeral is about to begin."
An affirmative reply came from the other end of the line.
"Listen," Satsuki said, staring at the calendar on the wall. "Starting tomorrow, remove and replace all the posters in the windows of S-Collection and Uniqlo."
"Take down all those red, pink, and bright colors, and throw them into storage."
"Replace them with black, white, and grey."
"S-Collection will focus on black haute couture cashmere coats and silk gowns. Uniqlo will focus on black turtleneck sweaters and dark grey suit pants."
"The design must be minimalist, solemn, and appropriate."
Tadashi Yanai on the other end seemed hesitant. "Miss, it's the New Year's sale season. Switching to all black will be too depressing. Sales might..."
"Yanai," Satsuki interrupted him. "Look outside your window."
"Tokyo doesn't need red right now. The entire nation is attending a funeral, signing condolence books, bowing. They need clothes they can wear out, clothes that express mourning without losing face."
"We need to sell them the most appropriate mourning attire while the whole of Tokyo is crying," Satsuki said, her fingers lightly twirling the telephone cord. "Tell them black is the most slimming, most classic color. Even after the funeral is over, they can wear it normally. Call it 'pragmatic mourning.'"
"Do it. I want to see our full-page ad in tomorrow morning's newspaper."
"The headline should be: 'Saluting the Back of an Era.'"
She hung up the phone.
Satsuki turned around.
Shuichi was looking at her.
"Even a funeral is to become business?" he asked.
"Funerals have always been the biggest business, Father," Satsuki said as she walked over and straightened Shuichi's slightly crooked tie. "Showa took their tears. We have to help them dry those tears. With the finest handkerchief."
January 10th, night.
Tokyo reached the peak of jishuku.
The neon sea of Ginza 7-chome was completely extinguished. The streets that once flowed with desire and money now resembled a massive corpse that had lost its warmth. Only a cold wind whipped up dead leaves, swirling on the empty asphalt road.
Section Chief Sato hunched his shoulders, walking briskly down the chilly street. In his hand was a paper bag printed with the word 'Uniqlo,' containing a newly purchased black turtleneck sweater and dark grey suit pants. He had to urgently buy this outfit to comply with his company's memorial event tomorrow.
"Really, not even a place to eat," Sato muttered, looking at the high-end ryotei lining the street. Each hung a 'Temporarily Closed' wooden sign, and his stomach growled in protest.
As a mid-level manager at Mitsubishi Corporation, having just received his year-end bonus, he had originally planned to go to his usual French restaurant for a good drink tonight. But now, the entire city was in mourning. Eating and drinking lavishly outside was seen as an unforgivable disrespect.
"Do I have to eat instant noodles again tonight?" Sato sighed and helplessly pushed open the glass door of a 7-Eleven.
Ding-dong—
Warm air hit him, mingled with the aroma of oden. In this dead city, only these convenience stores still shone with bright white light, like lighthouses on isolated islands.
Sato walked towards the refrigerated section, originally intending to just grab an onigiri to make do.
However, his gaze was drawn to a row of black square boxes in the most prominent spot of the cooler.
They were double-layered lunch boxes with a lacquerware-like texture. The lids bore gilded patterns that refracted a cold, high-end glow under the fluorescent lights. Through the transparent window, one could see them packed full with Hokkaido king crab meat, sea urchin, and A5 wagyu beef with clearly marbled fat.
"Gosen - Extreme"
Sato instinctively glanced at the price tag.
¥3,000.
"Three thousand yen?!" Sato gasped. Paying three thousand yen for a convenience store bento was madness. Normally, that amount would last him a whole night at an izakaya.
He reached out to grab the three-hundred-yen mentaiko onigiri next to it.
But the moment his fingers touched the onigiri, his hand stopped.
He remembered the closed French restaurant. If it were open, he would have spent twenty thousand yen there tonight.
"Since I can't go to a restaurant anyway," Sato thought, looking at the exquisite black lunch box and swallowing. "And having bought such cheap clothes, the money saved... it's not too much to treat myself a little, right?"
A subtle sense of compensatory justification grew wildly in his heart like weeds.
On this night where even laughter had to be suppressed, at this moment when clinking glasses outside was forbidden, taking this top-tier delicacy back to his apartment, closing the door, and enjoying it alone...
This wasn't called extravagance.
This was called necessary solace.
Sato hesitated no longer. He reached out and picked up the hefty 'Gosen.'
"Might as well get a bottle of sake too," he muttered.
He walked towards the alcohol shelf and casually picked up a bottle of daiginjo he usually couldn't afford.
At the checkout counter, the few salarymen in front of him were also holding the same black lunch boxes. They glanced at each other, said nothing, but shared a knowing, wry smile.
That night, the same scene played out in convenience stores all over Tokyo.
Countless salarymen like Sato, carrying Uniqlo's black paper bags yet holding three-thousand-yen luxury bento boxes, walked through the grey, dead streets back to their respective nests.
Under the lonely glow of a desk lamp, they opened the lids and looked at the heaping crab meat and wagyu.
This expensive bento became their only real and warm outlet in this hypocritical, oppressive era.
January 11th, early morning.
The S.A. Group morning meeting.
The long table was piled with financial reports from the past three days.
Shuichi looked at the aggregated numbers. Even he felt a jolt of shock. While the entire Japanese economy had briefly stalled due to jishuku, the Saionji Family's cash flow had once again hit a historic high.
Every time he thought the situation was outrageous and had surely reached its limit, Satsuki always managed to shatter his common sense again.
"This is going with the flow," Satsuki said, sitting at the head of the long table and toying with a dark blue Montblanc pen. "Father, sorrow is also a business."
"As long as the products we provide make people feel their consumption is appropriate, is fitting for the times, they will empty their wallets."
She closed her notebook and stood up.
"Alright, we've made enough petty cash," she said, walking to the floor-to-ceiling window and looking at the overcast sky in the distance. That was the direction of Tokyo Bay. "Time to get down to real business."
Shuichi was taken aback. "Real business?"
"Right now, the attention of all Japan is on the Imperial Palace, on the funeral, on that newly chosen era name," Satsuki said as she looked back. "That's the perfect cover."
"While everyone's gaze is drawn away, we need to go see someone."
"Who?"
"Yoshiaki Tsutsumi," Satsuki uttered the name. "The Emperor of Seibu must be feeling lonely right now. Because of jishuku, no one is staying at his Prince Hotels, no one is going to his ski resorts, even his politician friends are busy performing grief before the old man's coffin."
"At a time like this, if we go to him with a plan for the future, grand enough to make him forget the current depression..."
Satsuki walked to the huge map of Tokyo and pressed her finger heavily on the reclaimed land of Odaiba.
"I think he'd be very happy to have a drink with us."
Shuichi looked at the red circle on the map.
Odaiba.
That was their next battlefield, and the true springboard for the Saionji Family's leap into the zaibatsu class.
"Prepare the car, Father," Satsuki said, straightening her collar. It was a black velvet jacket she had specifically chosen for meeting that important figure — solemn, yet carrying a hint of undeniable sharpness. "Let's go tell that emperor."
"Showa is over."
"On the land of Heisei, the Saionji Family wants to share the world with him."
Outside the window, the first rays of sunlight pierced through the lingering gloom.
Beneath the grey-white clouds, a black sedan drove out of the gate, like a shark swimming into the deep sea, silently gliding into the dawn of Tokyo.