Otaku Translation: Absolute Number One C52

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Chapter 52: Time to Renew

“, busy?” tapped lightly on the screen that separated their desks, her voice laced with a casual smile. “Got a moment?”

Chihara Rinto glanced up, his fingers deftly flipping a page without missing a beat. He was moonlighting during office hours—writing something entirely unrelated to . Spotting his boss, he felt a flicker of guilt but masked it with an easy grin. “Of course! What’s up, ?”

Murakami didn’t notice his sleight of hand as she settled into the chair across from him. Her tone carried warmth and purpose. “Good news. The is considering offering you a long-term contract. I’m here to get your thoughts.”

Her words were deliberate—a subtle nod for Chihara to aim high. She’d do her best to negotiate on his behalf. After all, Chihara was her lead writer, and by unspoken industry rules, he was hers to manage. While the programming committee would approve the final terms, her advocacy mattered.

Chihara wasn’t surprised at the prospect of renegotiating. With the nighttime drama already galloping ahead like a dark horse, it would take collective blindness for both the production bureau and the programming committee to let someone like him slip away. Switching from a temporary to a permanent contract was standard procedure; if anything, the delay had been laughably slow for such a bureaucratic machine.

He’d anticipated this conversation. Without hesitation, he replied, “In that case, I’d like a five-year deal. Let’s push for higher royalties, and keep other benefits slightly above standard rates. I’m still new here, so I’ll leave the specifics to your judgment, Murakami-san.”

“Five years?” she echoed, her brow quirking faintly.

“That should suffice,” he said, his confidence unwavering.

Murakami lowered her eyelids, her implication clear. “A longer term wouldn’t be out of the question.”

Chihara caught her drift immediately, responding with equal transparency. “I have faith in my future. If things go well, we can always renew later.”

He believed in his upward trajectory. A shorter contract preserved flexibility, leaving room for future negotiations. Five years struck a balance: enough stability to grow while keeping exit costs manageable. It gave him leverage, ensuring he remained in control.

His response startled Murakami. She sat there, processing, before realization dawned. Most writers clamored for lifetime deals, terrified of being abandoned if ratings dipped. Production bureaus operated solely on numbers, devoid of sentimentality—a fact everyone knew too well.

This decision reflected Chihara’s career strategy. Though tempted to advise otherwise, Murakami hesitated. After a thoughtful pause, she spoke carefully. “If that’s your plan, focus on maximizing other perks. Don’t sell yourself short. Your current contract doesn’t expire for over a month, so no rush. Act hesitant about staying—it’ll make the programming committee more willing to sweeten the offer.”

She genuinely had Chihara’s best interests at heart. Better compensation meant peace of mind, and any surplus wouldn’t land in her pocket anyway. Still, unease crept in. With a teasing lilt, she asked, “You’re not actually planning to leave, are you?”

Chihara chuckled, mirroring her playful tone. “Not a chance. You gave me an opportunity when I needed it most, Murakami-san. I owe you one.”

It was true, though it had been mutual—a symbiotic exchange. But gratitude mattered. Even if he decided to transition into producing someday, he’d ensure Murakami had time to groom a capable team of episode writers before parting ways. Leaving now would be burning bridges, and that wasn’t his style.

Though they’d started as opportunists, they were friends now—or at least allies. Burning bridges was bad for business. Word traveled fast in the industry; reputation was everything. Who’d trust someone who stabbed collaborators in the back? A toxic environment stifled creativity.

Besides, he had plans. Through Tales of the Unusual, he’d continue building his reputation. Maybe spin off another show with a couple of trusted colleagues. Diversifying strengthened his position, preparing him for future negotiations.

Satisfied with his sincerity, Murakami relaxed. “Alright then. I’ll stall the programming committee until your temporary contract nears expiration. Then we’ll push hard for a significant raise and better royalties. Oh, and housing—I recall the station has unsold apartments nearby. Rent-free, convenient. I’ll see what I can do.”

Chihara nodded appreciatively. “Thanks. Looking forward to good news.” Murakami was sharp, considerate, and genuinely invested in others’ success. He couldn’t fathom why some dismissed her abilities.

“Well then,” she rose, waving off his attempt to escort her out. “Back to work. Keep writing—you’re doing great.”

With that, the renewal discussion was tabled until late March or early April. For now, Chihara set it aside, trusting Murakami to handle the details. He had no intention of leaving Tokyo Eizo Broadcasting (TEB). Japan’s major networks shared a peculiar dynamic: fierce competition tempered by tacit cooperation. Take actor salaries, for instance. Thanks to the internet, often wept comparing themselves to their . Same profession, wildly different paychecks.

Switching networks wouldn’t guarantee better treatment—and might invite trouble. Stability trumped uncertainty. Here, he’d built connections and momentum. Why rock the boat?

Flipping back a page in his notebook, he resumed his side project. Tales of the Unusual had aired eight episodes but was filming its eleventh. Post-production loomed, granting him a rare breather. Few scripts demanded immediate attention, freeing him to organize memories from another world. Nearly everything he recalled was documented; now came refinement.

Pen poised, he scribbled a few lines when Murakami reappeared, leaning against the screen with a sheepish grin. “Forgot something, Chihara. Free tonight?”

Quickly flipping to a blank page, he tilted his head curiously. “Should be. Meeting?”

“Nope. ITE Agency wants to wine and dine us. A senior colleague arranged it—hard to decline.”

ITE Agency. Vaguely familiar. Chihara guessed, “Casting call?”

“They’re not that crass. Just networking. Planting seeds for the future.” Murakami shrugged, unfazed. She’d attended similar events before, albeit as a junior tag-along. Now, she wielded influence. “No harm in going. Auditions remain impartial, so it’s free food, gifts, and goodwill. Want to tag along?”

Chihara understood. Favoritism cloaked as courtesy. Not unusual, but not his scene either. Success attracted these types like moths to a flame. Politely declining, he suggested, “Pass. Take Fujii-kun instead.”

“Suit yourself.” Murakami turned to leave but collided with Michiko, entering just then. Smiling, she greeted the girl warmly. “Michiko-chan! Over already?”

Michiko bowed deeply, her voice sugary sweet. “Good day, Murakami-san!”

Patting the girl’s head affectionately, Murakami cooed, “Such a good girl,” before departing. As soon as she passed, Michiko’s expression soured faster than spoiled milk.

Dragging her dour face behind the screen, she bowed again. “Master, apologies for interrupting.”

“No worries. Done filming?” Chihara didn’t mind. He encouraged Michiko to unwind here, sparing her the constant charade of cheerfulness.

“Yes, Master. A few days off.” She hung her tiny bag on the screen but hesitated, eyeing the desk. Chihara occupied her usual spot, and his computer dominated the workspace.

Amused, he gestured casually. “Just reading manga, right? Sit over there. I’ve got writing to do.”

“Yes, Master.” Obediently settling in, Michiko eyed the swirling screensaver curiously. “Master, are you free tomorrow evening?”

“Why?”

“My mother wishes to thank you with dinner. She feels guilty about my delayed studies and hopes to make amends.”

Chihara’s pen never paused. “And what does she really want?”

“She wants to butter you up,” Michiko chirped, betraying her mother’s scheme without hesitation. “The papers call you a nighttime drama genius. She’s hoping for a plum role in Season Two—one tailored to me, naturally. Expect top-tier . She’s prepared to splurge.”

“Unnecessary. Your talent speaks for itself. Murakami adores you.”

“But she wants a standout script—a leading role designed to shine.” Like a curious kitten, Michiko reached for the mouse, accidentally triggering a sudden change onscreen. Startled, she recoiled. Computers weren’t yet commonplace, especially among her peers juggling multiple classes.

Undeterred, she pressed on. “The last two projects disappointed her. No room to shine—just a pretty face without showcasing my ability. Not like your first episode of Tales of the Unusual. Master…what exactly is this thing?”

“Tell her I’m swamped. Perhaps another time.” Chihara had little patience for Nambu Ryoko’s maneuvering. Better to focus on his own pursuits.

Rising, he approached the computer and launched a rudimentary typing game. Pixelated UFOs drifted lazily across the screen, each bearing a letter or syllable. Hit the corresponding key, and the UFO exploded. Adjustable difficulty ranged from basic to full sentences.

When he’d requested cheap typing software, the shopkeeper foisted this relic upon him. Functional, if crude. To his surprise, Michiko lit up, eagerly absorbing his instructions. Eyes darting between screen and keyboard, she tentatively tapped keys, delight blooming across her face with each successful hit.

Chihara smirked. Kids loved even the dumbest games.

Letting her enjoy her respite, he returned to work. Perhaps it was time to invest a couple thousand yen to install a proper game.

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