I, Hiroshi Nohara, the star of Japanese cinema

Chapter 43 Anger
The door of Iwata's classroom, which was usually always tightly closed, now seemed to be strangled by an invisible hand, not allowing any light to penetrate and no sound to escape.

The air was as thick as solidified asphalt, and it seemed to be dragging everyone inside into a bottomless abyss.

Finally, the dead silence was broken by a violent loud noise.

"boom--!"

The solid wood desk was overturned by a huge force, and the documents, coffee cups, and crystal ashtrays on the desk were scattered everywhere without dignity like fallen leaves swept up in a sudden storm.

The coffee stain spread across the carpet like a pool of dried brown blood.

Masao Iwata stood in the center of the mess, his chest heaving violently.

The face that always showed shrewdness and calculation was now distorted by extreme anger and humiliation, like a piece of waste paper that was crumpled and then tried to be straightened.

His triangular eyes, which always flashed with calculation, now only contained beast-like madness.

Lost.

In a way that he could least understand and least accept.

"Waste! All of you are a bunch of waste!" He roared with a hoarse voice, like a trapped beast forced into a desperate situation, pouring all his unwillingness and resentment towards his subordinates who were huddled in the corner and trembling.

However, he knew better than anyone that he was the real loser.

He turned abruptly, rushed out of the office that had become a witness to his shame, and headed straight for the elevator, ignoring the surprised looks in the corridor.

He was going to meet Deputy Director Takada and explain.

He was going to... beg for mercy.

The elevator rose steadily, and the smooth metal wall reflected his distorted and pale face. He looked at himself in the mirror and felt so unfamiliar for the first time.

'Ding dong! '

The top floor has arrived.

The corridor leading to the pinnacle of power is covered with wool carpets so soft that they absorb all sounds. Abstract paintings by unknown painters hang on the walls. The air is filled with a mixture of high-end perfume and sandalwood, the scent of a superior.

This is heaven and hell.

However, when he walked to the familiar door that seemed to lead to the judgment hall of fate, he was stopped by a figure.

She is the secretary of Deputy Director Takada.

She was wearing a well-tailored business suit and had a stylized smile on her face, but beneath that smile was a cold, warmthless aloofness.

"Section Chief Iwata." Her voice was as flat as if she were reporting the weather. "The Deputy Director doesn't want to see anyone right now."

This sentence was like an ice-hardened key. With a slight turn, it locked the last bit of hope in Masao Iwata's heart.

His body shook violently, and the rage and unwillingness that had supported him in rushing here were all gone at this moment, leaving only a boundless panic that had drained all his strength.

He looked at the secretary's face, which seemed to be wearing a mask, and opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Then, he did something that shocked himself and caused a slight ripple to flash across the usually calm eyes of the secretary who was used to seeing storms.

His knees softened and with a plop, he knelt heavily on the mirror-like marble floor.

The sound was dull.

He buried his head deeply, and the expensive suit hand-sewn by a famous Italian master was now wrinkled like a rag.

His forehead was pressed tightly against the cold ground, and his butt was raised high, as if only in this way could he absorb a little bit of the chill to prevent himself from completely collapsing.

"Please... please tell the deputy director..." His voice seemed to be squeezed out from between his teeth, from the cracks in his soul, word by word, with a tremor: "I... I was wrong... please... give me another chance..."

Looking at the almost performance art-like dogeza before her, the secretary's usually professional smile cracked for the first time. She pursed her lips, a complex mix of pity, disdain, and a touch of helplessness in her expression.

She was silent for a moment.

Finally, he turned around and knocked gently on the door.

After a long time, a cold voice came from inside the door.

"Tell him to get in."

Masao Iwata felt as if he had been pardoned. He crawled to his feet and pushed open the door that seemed to weigh a thousand pounds.

In the office, Takada Toshihide didn't look at him. He just stood with his back to him in front of the huge floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the Tokyo cityscape that was as exquisite as a sand table below.

"I heard that you performed a wonderful 'Samurai Apology' for me?" Takada Toshihide's voice was very calm, so calm that it made Iwata Masao feel a little palpitated.

"Deputy Director, I..."

"Shut up."

Takada Shunei slowly turned around, his face, always adorned with a warm smile, now shrouded in a deep, unfathomable gloom. He walked up to Iwata Masao, but instead of getting angry, he looked him up and down with a cold, almost dissecting gaze.

"I asked you to fight a battle you were sure to win, but you brought me back a huge joke." He paused, his lips curled up in an extremely sarcastic arc. "But, it's good, at least you can give that guy Ming Ri Hai a perfect weekend to be happy about."

"No, no, no!" Masao Iwata's body trembled violently, and he even knelt on the ground again because of the other party's words.

Still sitting down.

"But this game isn't over yet."

Takada Toshihide's eyes turned cold, and he ignored Iwata Masao's gesture. He walked back to his desk, slowly sat down, and said in a sinister tone, "I will continue to work to ensure that your 'Kimi no Samurai' continues to air. However, I have one condition."

He stared at Masao Iwata intently, his eyes like a gambler who had lost all his money and was betting his last chip.

"From today on, your ratings must not drop even 5%! Otherwise, you will jump off this building."

The blood drained from Masao Iwata's raised face.

"As for the title of 'No. 1'..." Takada Shunei's lips curled up into an even more sinister smile. "Don't worry, I'll find a way to have the Statistics Department use the average daily ratings of your two animations to make the final assessment. I'll give you the 'No. 1' title for the 11pm slot. As for 'Anshiji'..."

He chuckled, as if discussing something insignificant. "Just give them a spot in the early morning slot. It's just... a small reward for their insignificant efforts."

"Then...then Suzuki's second-level director..." Iwata Masao asked in a trembling voice.

"His promotion to Level 2 Director is a foregone conclusion." A fierce glint flashed in Takada Shunei's eyes. "However, once he gets promoted, I'll immediately use my connections to transfer him, along with his so-called classroom, to the Hokkaido branch. Let him delve into his 'Urban Tales' with Xiong Hexue."

"Cut off Asumi's left and right arms in this headquarters. We will settle the rest of the accounts slowly."

Hearing these words, Iwata Masao's heart, which had long since sunk to the bottom, was rekindled with a flicker of hope. He looked at this all-powerful supporter before him, and with tears of gratitude, he dropped his head to the ground.

"I wish you a successful start!" said Masao Iwata.

However, when Takada Toshihide heard this, he suddenly stood up, walked around the desk, and kicked him hard in the chest.

The kick was fast and fierce, without any mercy.

"what!"

Masao Iwata screamed and fell backward, landing heavily on the carpet. He felt a sharp pain in his chest and could hardly breathe.

"If it weren't for you being my wife's good-for-nothing cousin."

Takada Shunei looked down at him condescendingly, all pretense stripped from his face, leaving only the most primal rage of a superior: "Based on your performance this time, I will absolutely make you commit seppuku in the most traditional way!"

(End of this chapter)