Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

The crisp sound of a lighter lighting a cigarette came from the other end of the phone, followed by Mary Kitagawa's suffocating interrogation: "Do you know what the word 'writer' means in this country?"

Mary Kitagawa's voice wasn't loud, but it carried an imposing chill: "This is the gentleman. He is the cultural scepter that even politicians must defer to."

"You think Kitahara Iwa is just a writer? Do you know he's a rising star that Shinchosha is currently promoting!"

"Even the Kyoto Board of Education was forced to rescind its ban after reading his book, 'Confessions'!"

"You're an idol who makes a living off your looks, going head-to-head with someone who controls the power of public opinion? Are you trying to get yourself killed already?!"

With each word Mary Kitagawa uttered, more sweat beaded on Kondo Masahiko's forehead.

But it's not over yet.

"As for Haruki Kadokawa..."

Mary Kitagawa sneered, her tone suddenly turning chilling: "Do you know who holds the distribution rights for the Shonentai and Hikaru Genji movies that Johnny's is heavily promoting next year? They're in Kadokawa's hands!"

"Do you know that madman currently controls billions in cash flow? In the film industry, he can make even TV station directors act before him with a stomp of his foot?"

"Are you trying to ruin the entire Johnny & Associates' future in film production just for the sake of your ridiculous pride?!"

Every word was like a resounding slap across Kondo Masahiko's face.

"But... Aunt Mary... but Akina and I are the perfect couple..."

Kondo Masahiko still wanted to make a last-ditch effort, trying to salvage some dignity by using Nakamori Akina.

"Shut up!"

This time, Mary Kitagawa completely lost her patience: "From today onwards, you're staying in your apartment and reflecting on your actions! You're not going anywhere!"

"Don't mess with Akina Nakamori again, and especially don't mess with Iwao Kitahara!"

"Kitahara Iwa is now Kadokawa Haruki's cash cow, his god of wealth!"

At this point, Mary Kitagawa paused for a moment.

Even through the telephone line, Kondo Masahiko could feel Mary Kitagawa's cold gaze.

Immediately afterwards, an ultimatum that plunged him into an icy abyss arrived: "If Kadokawa Haruki really goes crazy and tries to get you, in order to protect the agency's interests..."

"Masahiko, even I had no choice but to give up on you back then."

beep - beep - beep -

The next second, the call was abruptly ended.

Kondo Masahiko's hand holding the microphone froze in mid-air, his face ashen.

His proud "mother," the vast Johnny's empire behind her, and his singer girlfriend who gave him whatever he wanted...

Overnight, they all left him.

By the moonlight streaming through the window, Kondo Masahiko looked at his disheveled reflection in the mirror.

Without these accolades, what am I?

It's just an ant that's slightly better looking, and can be crushed by capital at any time.

Weeks later.

Tokyo, August.

With the continued rise in sales of "Confessions" and the official announcement of its film adaptation, the name Kitahara Iwao has become one of the most sought-after names in the Japanese publishing industry.

Countless bookstores are urging for the new book, and countless readers are eagerly awaiting the next masterpiece from this genius author.

However, surprisingly, Kitahara Iwa disappeared.

Instead, there was a young man dressed in a cheap shirt and a worn-out baseball cap, looking like an unemployed worker, lurking in the darkest corners of Tokyo.

valley.

This is Tokyo's largest street of makeshift accommodations, a desolate area whose name cannot be found on any administrative map.

This area was originally the intersection of Taito Ward and Arakawa Ward in Tokyo, but with the Japanese government's administrative division adjustment in 1966, this old area was erased and no longer exists.

Currently located south of Minami-Senju Station, it is a stone's throw from the popular tourist destination Senso-ji Temple and just across the river from the future hotspot, Tokyo Skytree.

Although the name is gone, poverty and despair remain like a chronic disease.

The air was thick with the smell of cheap liquor, fermenting garbage, and years of accumulated urine.

In recent weeks, Kitahara Iwa has been wandering like a ghost through the dormitories in the valley, the back alleys of brothels in Shinjuku's Kabukicho district, and the low-rent housing complexes in Adachi Ward filled with elderly people living alone.

Kitahara Iwa is gathering materials.

In the original story, Yoko Suzuki's life spanned forty years, ending in 2015.

But now that Kitahara Iwa is in 1989, he has to make drastic changes to the timeline, bringing the story's breaking point forward to the eve of the economic recession.

This requires not only imagination, but also a large amount of real-life material, often tinged with blood and gore.

In the valley, Kitahara Iwa saw with his own eyes the day laborers who were frozen stiff on the streets and were being cleared away like garbage.

In Kabukicho, he saw a girl in a miniskirt standing on the sweltering street late at night, trying to stay calm despite her body being tense and trembling.

In Adachi Ward, he smelled the deathly stillness in the room of an elderly person living alone, a mixture of the smell of old age, mildew, and despair.

Here, have some water.

Kitahara Iwa picked up a large bottle of cooled boiled water from the side of his feet, poured it into a slightly deformed plastic cup, and handed it to an old woman next to him.

The old woman was so hot that she was somewhat delirious. She weakly took the water glass and gulped it down like a plant starving of water.

Her clothes were soaked with sweat, exuding a kind of decaying aura unique to the elderly.

Kitahara Iwa didn't speak, but just quietly looked at the red and swollen bumps on her neck from mosquito bites, and her hands, deformed from years of hard work, now hanging limply at her sides.

Kitahara Iwa is in my memory.

I felt the suffocating heat with my body, the burning sensation of my skin against the scorching cardboard, and the feeling of being slowly swallowed up by despair on a sleepless summer night.

This is the world after Yoko Suzuki's fall from grace.

Without experiencing it firsthand and smelling the unique rotten smell of summer here, one cannot write with the realism of "The Cry".

In the open space not far away, several shirtless day laborers were sitting together drinking in silence. Even though they were sitting still, they were covered in sweat and would swat at the mosquitoes that were biting them from time to time, making a slapping sound.

Just then, an untimely grumble broke the silence.

"Ugh... this smell is awful, it stinks even worse than a garbage dump."

"Saito-senpai, are we really going in? There are so many mosquitoes, and it feels so dangerous..."

Three young people, dressed in neat shirts and trousers, wearing masks, and carrying notebooks and cameras, were carefully walking over, avoiding the sewage on the ground.

They kept fanning themselves in front of their noses, their eyes filled with disgust and fear of the place.

Leading the way was a thin old man with graying hair and incredibly sharp eyes.

He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt that was already soaked with sweat, without a mask, and beads of sweat kept seeping from his forehead and neck, sliding down his chin, but he still walked forward steadily, without stopping.

He is Shigeo Saito, a top reporter for Kyodo News, and is considered to be the most quintessential journalist in all of Japan.