Entertainment Creator System: Building an Anime Empire

Chapter 176: Chapter 176: One Word

Fujimori Aya climbed four flights of stairs in Saitama on Saturday morning with a single sheet of paper in a plastic sleeve inside her bag. By the third flight, she had nearly turned back twice.

She had worn her navy blazer, because it was the only thing she owned that made her feel like someone who could sit at a stranger’s table and say something difficult. It was the same blazer she had worn in a café in Hitotsubashi two years ago, when she leaned across an uneven table toward a boy of eighteen and whispered the office walls are thin. She had clicked her pen the whole time. She had been so frightened she could barely breathe.

She wasn’t carrying a pen today. She had left it at home on purpose.

On the fourth floor, the door was already open.

A woman in her early forties stood in the doorway, small and very straight, in a plain grey cardigan with her hair pinned up. She had the kind of face that had been tired for a long time and had decided not to show it to anyone.

”Fujimori-san,” she said.

”Hino-san.” Aya bowed. ”Thank you for letting me come.”

Hino Michiko looked at her for a long moment. Then she stepped aside.

”Take your shoes off,” she said. ”It’s small.”

It was small. It had two rooms and a narrow kitchen, with a window facing another building’s wall. Every surface was covered in drawings: a lighthouse, a widow shelling peas, cobblestones glowing, and a clumsy sea serpent on the refrigerator under a magnet shaped like a fish.

Aya stood in the kitchen doorway and looked at them for a long time.

”He drew all of these?” she asked.

”All but the sea serpent,” said a voice from the table.

The boy sitting there was eighteen now, tall and thin, with a sketchbook in front of him. Aya had seen his name printed on the copyright page of a small book, beneath another name, in the same size type. She had never seen his face.

He looked at her steadily and didn’t get up.

”Tsubasa,” said his mother quietly.

He stood, bowed, and sat down again.

Aya sat across from them at the small kitchen table. It was the same table, she understood, where a letter had been opened two years ago and read aloud by a woman who didn’t understand half the legal words in it. Michiko poured three cups of barley tea and set one in front of Aya without asking. Then she sat, folded her hands on the table, and waited.

Aya had rehearsed what she would say on the train. She had rehearsed it for three days, on the ninth floor of Yamashita at the desk that used to be Ishikawa’s, and at home at night. She found now that she couldn’t remember a word of it.

So she took the plastic sleeve out of her bag instead, and laid it on the table between them.

It was a single sheet of plain white paper, handwritten in black ink in a neat, careful hand. It was the handwriting of a man who had spent six years as a junior editor learning to write what he was told.

Across the top, it read Draft — Kanemoto & Partners — Re: Threadless Gate / Hino.

There were five paragraphs of polite, formal Japanese. Halfway down the second paragraph, a single phrase had been crossed out with a thin, firm line of red ink.

may have

Above it, in the same red ink, in a different hand, one word had been written.

has

Michiko looked at it for a long time without touching it.

”Read it to me,” she said finally. ”Please. The sentence. Both versions.”

Aya picked up the sleeve. Her hands weren’t quite steady.

”We are writing on behalf of parties who believe they may have a legitimate interest in the work,” she read. Then she read the second version. ”We are writing on behalf of parties who have a legitimate interest in the work.”

The small kitchen was completely silent. Through the thin wall, a radio was playing somewhere in the next apartment.

”May have,” Michiko repeated slowly. ”If it had said may have—”

”Your lawyer, if you’d had one, would have written back and asked what interest,” Aya said quietly. ”They’d have had to show the contract. There wasn’t one. It would have ended in a week.” She put the sleeve down. ”Has meant you had to prove they didn’t. Without a lawyer, and without money, against a law firm in Chiyoda.”

Michiko didn’t say anything.

Beside her, Tsubasa was staring at the red ink.

”Kagawa wrote may have,” he said slowly. ”He knew it wasn’t true, so he wrote may.” He looked up at Aya. ”And Ishikawa changed it.”

”Yes.”

”Why?”

Aya was quiet for a long moment.

”I don’t know,” she said honestly. ”I worked for him for five years and I never knew why he did anything. Kagawa told the Commission that Ishikawa said the letter needed to be effective.” She looked at the boy across the table. ”He wanted you to take the series down that night. He knew may have wouldn’t make you. He knew has would.” Her voice cracked. ”And it did.”

Michiko picked up the plastic sleeve for the first time and held it in both hands, looking at the single red word.

”I cried,” she said. ”At this table. I read it twice, and I didn’t understand what legitimate interest meant. But I understood has.” She was quiet for a moment. ”I thought, they already own it. My son drew something, and someone richer already owns it, and there’s nothing we can do.”

Aya couldn’t speak.

”I’m sorry,” she said at last. Her voice was barely audible. ”I was in that company. I didn’t write this, and I didn’t know about it. But I was there for five years and I never once asked what Rookie Development was doing on the ninth floor. I told myself it wasn’t my business.” She put both hands flat on the table. ”It was my business. It was everyone’s. I’m sorry.”

Michiko looked at her for a long time.

Then she put the plastic sleeve down on the table, very carefully, and slid it back across to Aya.

”Take it to the lawyer,” she said. ”The old one in Kichijōji. For the boy who sued. For the others.” Her voice was perfectly steady. ”It belongs in a courtroom, not on my table.”

Aya stared at her.

”You said you’d believe it if I came here myself,” she said slowly. ”Do you?”

Michiko didn’t answer immediately. She looked at the refrigerator with its sea serpent and its fish magnet, and at her son beside her, and at the drawings covering every surface of a small apartment.

”I believe you,” she said finally. ”I don’t know about the company. I’ll find out when your name’s on the credits beside my son’s.” She picked up her cup of barley tea. ”Now drink your tea. It’s gone cold, and it’s rude to let tea go cold in someone’s kitchen.”

Aya picked up her cup and drank the cold tea. Her hands were shaking so much that she spilled a little on the table. Michiko wiped it up with a cloth without a word.

Across the table, Tsubasa had picked up his pencil. He was drawing something in his sketchbook, quickly, without looking up.

When Aya left, an hour later, he tore the page out and handed it to her at the door without saying anything.

It was a drawing of a small kitchen table in a two-room apartment, with three cups of barley tea on it. One of them had a small spill beside it.

On the train back to Tokyo, Aya sat by the window with the drawing on her knee and the plastic sleeve in her bag. She watched the grey suburbs of Saitama slide past.

She called Haruki from between the carriages, over the rattle of the train.

”She said yes,” she told him. ”To the committee, and the credits. She said she believes me. Not the company.” A pause. ”She said she’ll find out about the company when our name’s beside her son’s.”

”That’s fair.”

”It’s more than fair.” Aya looked down at the drawing in her hand: three cups of barley tea on a small table, and a spill beside one of them. ”Amamiya-san. The boy drew me something. At the door. The table, with three cups.”

Haruki was quiet on the other end of the line.

”He drew the spill,” Aya said. ”The tea I spilled because my hands were shaking. His mother wiped it up without saying anything.” Her voice caught. ”I don’t know why he drew that. I don’t know what it means.”

”It means he saw it,” Haruki said. ”That’s all Tsubasa ever draws. What he actually saw.”

Aya didn’t say anything for a long time.

”I’ll take the draft to Hirose-sensei on Monday,” she said at last. ”And I’ll testify in the case, if he wants me to. About the drawer, and the red ink.” She paused. ”I told the Commission everything I knew last year, in a small room in Kasumigaseki. I thought that was enough.” She looked at the drawing again. ”It wasn’t. It was only what I was brave enough for then.”

She hung up before he could answer, and sat with the drawing on her knee all the way to Ueno.

[Consent: Hino Michiko — Condition met. Status: Granted.]

[Evidence: Draft letter (Kagawa, handwritten; Ishikawa correction in red: ”may have” → ”has”). Destination: Hirose Kenzō (Ōkubo v. Ariadne).]

[Yamashita funding (¥60M): Cleared for committee vote.]

[Fujimori Aya — Witness (Ōkubo v. Ariadne): Volunteered.]