Otaku Translation: Absolute Number One C36

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Chapter 36: Time Waits for No One

Murakami Iori and had basked in their shared joy for a while, exchanging heartfelt sighs of relief. But soon, they noticed sitting silently, lost in thought. Murakami tilted her head curiously. "Chihara, aren't you happy?"

The previous late-night drama, , had peaked at a dismal 1.1% rating. Now, with their show hitting 5.01%, this was a monumental leap—fivefold growth in just one episode. In the producers' meeting earlier, even the dismissive senior executive who rarely acknowledged her seemed unusually warm. This was validation, proof that her hard work could overcome systemic biases. It moved her deeply.

Given these results, she expected the creative team to be elated. Yet Chihara’s subdued expression stood out like a storm cloud on a sunny day.

Chihara couldn’t summon excitement. The preceding late-night dramas had dug such an enormous pit of mediocrity that despite all their efforts—their sleepless nights, their painstaking craftsmanship—they’d merely managed to fill it halfway. If anything, he felt like crying rather than celebrating. Happiness? That was premature at best.

Still, he understood the importance of reading the room. Smiling politely, he chimed in, "I’m happy, but also reflective." demanded synchronized emotions; failing to mirror collective sentiment was akin to flouting unwritten rules.

Murakami nodded sympathetically. "I understand how you feel," she said softly before breaking into another smile. "But audience feedback has been overwhelmingly positive. Just this morning, we received over a dozen calls supporting us."

The plump office clerk responsible for handling viewer responses had practically skipped into the room, her face flushed with pride as she reported the news. Such moments of recognition were invaluable.

Fujii Arima echoed her enthusiasm, nodding vigorously. For once, it seemed they wouldn’t face cancellation after all.

Chihara didn’t begrudge them their happiness—it was well-deserved—but his goals remained far beyond reach. He gave the ratings report a quick shake and suggested, "Shall we get back to work?"

"Right," Murakami agreed immediately, snapping back into professional mode. She gathered the director and screenwriter to analyze the charts together.

This was the essence of producing a series while airing it: ratings weren’t meant for self-congratulation but served as data points to refine future episodes.

Fujii leaned forward, tracing his finger along the time-slot graph. "Every time appears, there’s a slight dip in viewership."

Murakami frowned slightly. "Do you think it’s Takeda’s performance or an issue with the anthology structure?"

"It’s hard to say," Fujii admitted. "Takeda does have minor issues—I’ll push him harder—but regarding the script..." He glanced at Chihara.

Chihara stepped in smoothly. "I’ll try to weave Takeda more organically into the transitions between short stories. We can smooth out those shifts."

"Let’s adjust accordingly and reassess by episodes three or four," Murakami decided. Then, pointing to a sharp fluctuation on the graph, she asked, "What about here? Why the sudden drop?"

"That’s unrelated to us," Fujii explained confidently. "It happens right at the hour mark when clocks chime. Some viewers likely realized it was late and turned off their TVs to sleep."

Chihara smirked mischievously. "Then during editing, let’s ramp up the tension around the hour mark. If we hook them past the next five minutes, they’ll stay up another thirty."

"Precisely!" Murakami beamed. "Once people miss the top of the hour, they usually wait until the next one to act. Great idea!"

"And what about our planned seven-minute stimulus units?" she continued. "How effective were they? Should we tighten the pacing further?"

"It’s too early to tell from just one episode," Fujii mused. "Seven minutes feels about right. Speeding up might lose some viewers." Though skeptical of Chihara’s original suggestion, he hesitated to critique it outright.

Murakami, eager to lock in viewers, pressed on. "Increasing the frequency of stimuli could keep audiences more engaged and reduce churn."

Chihara intervened. "If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Seven minutes aligns perfectly with —long enough to sustain adult attention without causing fatigue."

For instance, horror films often use scare tactics every six to —even if unrelated to plot progression. A sudden flicker of light, a ghostly face appearing unexpectedly, footsteps echoing behind the protagonist, or brief flashes of skin kept viewers on edge. Letting their minds wander risked losing them entirely.

Yet overstimulation carried its own dangers. If the brain grew overwhelmed, it signaled the body to switch off the TV and retreat to bed. Sleeping viewers equaled zero ratings—a cardinal sin.

---

Post-broadcast analysis was a critical task for the creative team. They huddled together for nearly half an hour, dissecting every detail like masterminds plotting to captivate—or perhaps murder—their audience. By the end, having scrutinized every possible factor, including hypothetical bathroom breaks and bowel movements, they finally concluded—things looked remarkably promising.

Murakami exhaled contentedly. "Thank you both for your hard work. Creating something this good is no small feat." Privately, she owed much to Chihara’s script, but professionalism dictated equal gratitude toward Fujii.

Fujii grinned. "Credit goes to Chihara’s brilliant writing and Murakami-san’s keen eye for talent."

Chihara joined the mutual admiration society, knowing participation was non-negotiable. Humble yet strategic, he replied, "None of this would’ve been possible without Murakami-san’s meticulous preparation and Fujii-kun’s excellent direction."

Thus commenced a three-way carousel of workplace flattery—a celebratory ritual marking their modest victory. After three rounds, Murakami raised a hand to halt the exchange. "Alright, alright. This success belongs to all of us. Moving forward, we must maintain this level of dedication. Quality cannot slip."

Chihara nodded earnestly. "Absolutely. This marathon spans nearly a hundred days. Consistency is key to retaining viewers and achieving better results."

Murakami clapped her hands decisively. "Let’s keep everything as planned and dive back into work!" With expectations low initially—she’d have been thrilled with a 1% average opening season—they now hovered near 3%. Reaching 4-5% seemed plausible, with peaks potentially climbing to 8-9%. Stress visibly eased from her features; her face, once swollen, now regained definition. Crisis averted.

But Chihara froze mid-thought, struck by unease. Was that it? Were they satisfied with coasting along, waiting for natural growth? Where were the plans to capitalize on momentum? Surely they needed a new promotional strategy to build on their success!

He understood their mindset—modest goals bred contentment—but understanding didn’t mean acceptance. While Murakami and Fujii chose stability, he couldn’t afford complacency. Every year of television’s golden decade mattered. Fame waited for no one. What was the point of enduring exhaustion if he couldn’t secure independence soon?

Complacency was unacceptable. Progress must continue.

Interrupting their departure preparations, he blurted, "Murakami-san, Fujii-kun, do we really intend to proceed unchanged, simply waiting for ratings to grow naturally?"

Murakami paused, puzzled. "What else should we do?"

To her, they’d done everything possible. Repetition and refinement sufficed. Chihara disagreed. Gesturing as though rolling a snowball, he argued, "We’re gaining momentum. The larger our initial snowball, the greater our eventual impact. To maximize this, we need aggressive promotion—not passive waiting."

Murakami blinked, baffled. Before she could respond, Fujii interjected. "Chihara, are you dissatisfied with current results? What’s your target rating?"

Chihara met his gaze unflinchingly. "I aim for a final-season average above 20%."

Murakami stifled a laugh, exchanging amused glances with Fujii. Clearly, the rookie misunderstood industry realities. Gently, Fujii pointed out key statistics. "Ambition is admirable, but consider this: during our timeslot, roughly 15 out of 100 TVs are active. Even securing a third of those viewers constitutes success. Achieving 20% means monopolizing everyone watching late-night TV—an impossibility."

He softened his critique, appreciating Chihara’s passion. Other networks wouldn’t roll over and concede defeat. Dominating the market wasn’t feasible anymore; capturing half the audience guaranteed entry into broadcasting history.

"Youngsters dream big, but reality demands practicality," he concluded wryly.

Their skepticism failed to deter Chihara. Instead, he grew resolute. "I understand the limitations of late-night slots—they’re undeniable. However, I firmly believe a 20%-plus average is achievable. We must avoid falling into mental traps."

"While current late-night viewership is limited, that doesn’t mean it’s fixed. Audiences are human, not robots bound to rigid schedules. Potential viewers exist—we must unearth them, and quickly."

Pausing, his tone shifted to solemn intensity, compelling Murakami and Fujii to avert their eyes. Yet his voice remained soft. "Why settle for incremental improvement across seasons? If this season falls short, will we defer ambition again? Why delay striving for greatness?"

"We shouldn’t accept stagnation. Let’s actively engage viewers, enticing them to stay awake until eleven or midnight for our show!"

. Proactivity never errs.

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