'Ah, that was refreshing.'
Kurosaki Kageyama sighed as he finished the glass of scotch he had poured himself. It was an expensive brand; the label indicated it was a foreign import, and the bottle itself shimmered in a fine layer of frost.
'Openly challenging my proposals, sowing doubt among my subordinates, even attempting to discredit my management—what a strange creature. That geriatric was causing trouble in the office for some time. One cannot help but wonder if he was always like this.'
The man's gaze shifted to the window to the perfectly framed nightscape. He looked down at the neon streets and swarming masses, and across to the towering concrete and glass spires. Tokyo was always abuzz with activity; even now, the city was bustling well into the night. Yet, there was a certain sense of peacefulness in the air, an atmosphere of tranquillity.
The man closed his eyes. The lights of the city danced across his eyelids.
Kurosaki had dealt with many men like him already, and would continue to do so in the future. They were rigid, their thought processes inflexible—though, not without merit. To Kurosaki, it was understandable how they enshrined past, doing the same thing that got them there in the first place, refusing to ever change. They were the stalwarts of old; stubborn and steadfast.
Their stagnant nature provided ample opportunity for others to climb over them, which was exactly what Kurosaki had exploited. For that, the man held some twisted gratitude in his heart to his elders.
'Still, I must applaud myself. Hiring that prostitute to act as his mistress was a stroke of inspiration. To think that she was the one who took the photos, too... I wonder what kind of expression Uzushi-san would make if he knew the truth?'
Originally, there hadn't been enough dirt on the man to bring him down—that old man had led a surprisingly quiet and clean career. That was why he had to resort to planting something to uncover later, requiring strict care to cultivate such a scandal over several months. Uzushi was a rare case, however, it did more for Kurosaki's sadistic pleasure than any other.
In Japan, honour was placed above anything else, and people would do anything to hide the shame of their crimes. The result was a foregone conclusion once those photos found their way into Kurosaki's office.
It was masterful, and the plan was executed flawlessly. During the meeting, he almost felt the sweat dripping from the old man's brow; it was like watching a man dangling over the edge of a cliff—a man who knew his grip was slipping.
'The old man's resignation letter will be delivered to the board tomorrow morning. Perhaps he hoped by leaving the company, his wife and daughter would remain oblivious to his extramarital affairs.'
Kurosaki stifled a laugh.
Once again, the traditions of old were a trapping. To Uzushi, it would be unthinkable to renege on such a thing. After all, he had done all Kurosaki had asked of him, and fleeting concepts such as 'honour' and 'integrity' would magically tie Kurosaki's hands behind his back.
'A naive assumption.'
The photos had already been mailed to his wife, along with a copy of that shameful resignation letter. She would discover the 'truth' soon enough. And with that prostitute no longer on his payroll, it was a certainty that she'd never contact that senile man again.
Within a week, he would be left without a roof over his head, without a source of income, and perhaps, most pressingly, left without a family. What worse a tragedy than this, for an ageing man entering his idle years?
Kurosaki's lips curled into a grin as he savoured the complete destruction of his old competitor like a fine wine. Silently, he raised his empty glass to the night sky.
And the world belonged to him.
***
The smell of stale smoke and alcohol clung to the drawn curtains. A flickering light bulb dangled from the ceiling, illuminating the space in a sickly yellow glow.
The room was piled high with used instant noodle cups, cans and beer bottles. Strewn across the floor were empty cigarette packets and cigarette butts sank into the dirty carpet. Save for a single chair and an old television set, the room was devoid of any furniture.
Occupying the chair was a hunched figure. The wrinkles on his face were pronounced; the flesh sagged and hung loosely from his bones. He wore a pair of tattered glasses which he constantly fiddled with, trying to keep them from falling off his nose. He stared listlessly at the screen with sunken eyes and hollow pupils. A faded scar ran down his right cheek—a memento from a drunken fight with another man a few years prior.
If one saw Hiiroga Uzushi now, one would think him an unrecognisable and broken man. Someone who had once commanded respect from the boardroom to the boardwalk, now a shell of their former self.
The television crackled as the upbeat voice of a presenter filled the room.
"In an earnings call last week, the Yamato Group announced that their controversial acquisition of the Kensaku Corporation would be continuing despite concerns of antitrust violations. To discuss the topic with us, I am pleased to welcome a very special guest to our show. We are delighted you have joined us today, Kageyama-sama."
The camera panned from the presenter to a man in his late twenties with combed black hair and attentive black eyes. His face was composed, dressed in a grey suit, a white shirt and a black tie—the uniform of corporate Japan.
Kurosaki's empty eyes peered through the pixels on the screen, judging the old man.
"Kageyama-sama, since you were appointed as CEO four years ago, the Yamato Group has continued to grow at an astonishing rate; with the company now ten times as valuable since then. Your name is synonymous with the success of the Yamato Group, but this has led many analysts pointing to you regarding the Kensaku acquisition. Do you have any comment on these claims?"
The man addressed the camera with a smile. Kurosaki's voice was smooth; his tone was like that of a polished diamond.
"Please, the Yamato Group's success belongs to the hard work of our employees, the loyalty of our customers, and the faith of our investors. Accusations are much easier to direct towards an individual, than a company. At the end of the day, the Yamato Group is a human enterprise at its heart. It belongs not to me, but to the employees who have worked tirelessly to build it, and I can only take pride in their accomplishments."
Uzushi's hands balled into tight fists as he grimaced at the barefaced lies coming out of the man's mouth.
"To even suggest that we hold a monopoly over markets because we are the more attractive option to the consumer; it is nothing more than sour grapes from our competitors. We have no plans to cease our consolidation in the Japanese market, nor will we be slowing our expansion into foreign ones..."
The interview continued in the same manner for the rest of the program—but Uzushi's mind was elsewhere. The words coming from the television grew muffled, like distant echoes in the distance. His vision swam and he blinked rapidly, struggling to focus.
Then, the recording ended.
Uzushi was once again left alone with only the static hum of electricity to keep him company. Staring at the frozen devil on the screen, Kurosaki's face was calm, mocking him even now.
An up-and-coming employee, eager to prove himself; eager to be part of the new generation of business leaders. Uzushi remembered meeting Kurosaki for the first time. He came with accolades of recommendations from his co-workers and high praise from prior bosses. It seemed like an obvious choice to promote the young man.
Having found success in his own career, Uzushi prided himself on his ability to read people, and when he met Kurosaki, he saw a man who was desperate for approval. At the time, he'd thought nothing of Kurosaki's unusual acclaim; after all, he was just a young man looking to find his place in the world.
How wrong he was.
Only now could he see how Kurosaki slowly chipped away at his foundation. He sowed poison amongst his staff; he poisoned their minds with venom, of dissent and rebellion. Of misdirection, miscommunication and sabotage. Through all the restructurings, only Kurosaki remained, remaining silent as Uzushi let others go, his face hidden behind that mask of a smile.
The old man's hazy eyes drifted to the pile of cassette tapes beside the television. There were dozens of them—some scribbled with dates, others left unmarked. If one were to go through all of them, one thing would instantly be made apparent. You would only find interviews and news reports of the same man on those tapes.
Such a collection wasn't unusual in this day and age.
Kurosaki Kageyama was a household name. He was a celebrity, someone who could do no wrong. No matter where you went, the man's face was plastered across the front pages of newspapers, his voice and charm filling the airwaves. The Yamato Group came to be regarded as the poster child of Japanese corporations, helmed by Kurosaki, an overseas empire was built atop his rotting legacy.
Uzushi felt he was going insane.
The young man on the screen was definitely a monster; a sociopath with no empathy, no remorse and no morals. Yet, why did every journalist, commentator and analyst seem to adore him? Why did everybody sing his praises? It was clear.
The answer was crystal clear.
They were too afraid to speak out, too afraid to question anything. Criticism was bombarded by apologetic defenders. It was a conspiracy of silence. And the others, those who lapped up the words of the media could not see it.
Uzushi's body was trembling—not from fear as he did before, but from rage. His hands trembled as he clutched the arms of his chair. His breath came in ragged gasps. The pain in his chest was excruciating; his breathing laboured.
He was getting old.
The hourglass was running thin.
Was it all for nothing? A life spent toiling at a desk, too caught up in meetings to watch his daughter grow up, reduced to nothing in a moment of blind indulgence.
'You love your family, Uzushi-san?'
Uzushi gritted his teeth.
'How bold an assertion.'
And made a decision.