Otaku Translation: Absolute Number One C59

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Chapter 59: Suspension

The next morning, woke up with a dull throb in his temples. It was the aftermath of last night’s indulgence—a cocktail of from the alcohol that had triggered his into overdrive. The result? Constricted blood vessels, elevated blood pressure, and an unwelcome headache to greet him at dawn.

As someone who prided himself on being an "internet trivia connoisseur," he knew exactly what would help: a glass of honey water. Unfortunately, as a bachelor whose culinary skills were limited to microwaving frozen dinners, there wasn’t so much as a jar of honey lurking in his kitchen cabinets. Instead, he resorted to pressing a warm towel against his forehead—a remedy that did little more than provide psychological comfort. Still, it was better than nothing.

By the time the throbbing dulled to a manageable hum, he got dressed and headed off to work. These days, things were looking up for Chihara. He’d invested in two custom-tailored suits, transforming himself into the picture of professionalism and confidence. Gone was the awkwardness of his early days in this world; now, he exuded the aura of a young, ambitious professional who had not only adapted but thrived. He even found himself daydreaming about upgrading his living situation—perhaps securing a rent-free apartment and splurging on some new furniture and appliances to elevate his quality of life.

Life, after all, was about careful planning, steady accumulation, and methodical progress. Step by step, you built something better for yourself.

He arrived punctually at Tokyo Eizo Broadcasting (TEB), making his way directly to the office of . The atmosphere was relaxed, almost serene. The finance team and a few female clerks were wrapping up loose ends from the current season, mostly organizing documents and filing away records. With minimal pressure and light workloads, they soon brewed tea and gathered in small clusters to chat quietly. For them, this week was a rare lull—a breather before the storm.

It was nearly ten o’clock when Chihara finished drafting the outline for the second season. and Fujii still hadn’t shown up, but he wasn’t too concerned. Last night, Fujii had downed enough liquor to float a battleship. Between dancing wildly with Yoshizaki and collapsing into drunken sobs, the man had been utterly wasted. By the time they stuffed him into a taxi, he was spouting nonsense. Given that Fujii hadn’t taken a single day off in three months, Chihara figured today’s tardiness was understandable—even justified. Everyone needed to let loose once in a while.

Murakami Iori was in a similar boat. After months of relentless work, skipping one day wouldn’t be the end of the world. Chihara shrugged off their absence and turned his attention to the news on his computer. But before he could browse more than a couple of headlines, burst into the room, his face glowing with excitement.

“Chihara-sensei! It’s out!” he exclaimed breathlessly.

Chihara looked up, puzzled. “What’s out?”

“Our timeslot for next season has been announced! We’re moving to Friday night’s nine o’clock theater—the prime-time slot!” Shiraki couldn’t contain his joy. “And we’ve also secured a rerun on the satellite channel for Saturday afternoon at three-thirty!”

Chihara sat up straighter, his interest piqued. Friday nights at nine? That was golden real estate in the TV landscape. “That’s fantastic,” he said, nodding approvingly. “But what about the budget? At the end of the day, money makes or breaks a show.”

Shiraki shook his head. “No word on that yet.”

“And Murakami-san?” Chihara pressed, eager for details that might shape his strategy. Again, Shiraki shook his head. “I heard she was called to a meeting with the programming committee right after the production bureau’s internal session. No idea when she’ll be back.”

“So that’s why she hasn’t returned,” Chihara muttered to himself. No wonder Murakami hadn’t made it to the morning meeting—it wasn’t laziness or a hangover keeping her away. If anything, her dedication bordered on obsessive. Even after last night’s binge, she’d somehow managed to drag herself out of bed and face whatever challenges lay ahead. Likely, she was fighting for a bigger budget—a natural move given the prestige of their new timeslot.

Why did everyone covet prime-time slots? Sure, the built-in audience base was part of it, but the real draw was the cash flow. Japanese commercial broadcasters—colloquially known as —relied heavily on three main revenue streams: , subscription fees for cable programming, and advertising. Among these, ad revenue reigned supreme. And what determined ad rates? Three key metrics:

1. (average viewership from 5:00 AM to 11:00 PM),

2. (average viewership from 7:00 PM to 10:00 PM),

3. (viewership during flagship programs and peak time slots, such as Monday nights at eight or nine, Friday/Saturday/Sunday afternoons for kids’ programming, and morning shows targeting housewives).

High numbers in these areas meant advertisers came knocking, waving wads of cash. Low numbers? Forget it. They’d either demand discounts or ignore the network altogether.

This explained why late-night dramas were perpetually underfunded. Their impact on overall performance was negligible, serving mainly to boost teleshopping traffic or generate modest profits through DVD sales and rentals. The programming committee wasn’t stupid—they weren’t going to throw money at shows that didn’t move the needle.

For the major networks, these three metrics were the battlegrounds where fortunes were won or lost. Outperforming the other four giants translated directly into higher ad revenues. Beneath polite smiles and superficial camaraderie, each station secretly plotted the downfall of its rivals. News programming offered another front, focusing on morning, noon, and evening broadcasts. But in Japan, outside of —the public broadcaster with quasi-governmental status—commercial networks didn’t prioritize breaking news as aggressively.

Now, with Tales of the Unusual shifting from a low-priority late-night slot to Friday night’s prime-time lineup, Chihara felt a surge of optimism. This promotion signaled a turning point. Like mobilizing a reserve unit into the front lines, the show was poised to receive reinforcements: bigger budgets, better actors, improved post-production quality. From April 8th, the first Friday of the spring drama season, their performance could significantly influence TEB’s bottom line. Naturally, the network would invest accordingly.

Finally, they were escaping the purgatory of late-night programming. Finally, they could afford talented actors and polished visuals. The future looked bright.

Chihara leaned back in his chair, smiling contentedly as he resumed browsing the news. What a fantastic start to this new chapter. Everything seemed to be falling into place.

Shiraki left without disturbing him further, already scheming how to gather more intel. Rumors spread like wildfire within the industry, and Shiraki often stumbled upon valuable tidbits simply by eavesdropping on casual conversations. Within an hour, he returned, bursting through the partition with urgency.

“Shiraki-kun,” Chihara greeted him, amused. “Got another piece of good news?”

Had they secured an astronomical budget? Was this the moment they transitioned from scrappy underdogs to big-budget contenders? If only they’d started with a serialized format instead of episodic anthologies—it would have been easier to build viewer loyalty and sustain ratings growth.

But Shiraki’s expression was pale, uncertain. He hesitated, struggling to find the right words. “Sensei… I heard something strange. Something bad.”

Chihara frowned. “Bad? What do you mean?”

“Well…” Shiraki swallowed nervously. “I overheard two clerks from the programming committee talking in the restroom. They said Murakami-san got suspended.”

“Suspended?” Chihara blinked, sure his ears were deceiving him. “Are you serious? She hasn’t done anything wrong!”

“I don’t know for sure,” Shiraki admitted. “They said she insulted the committee or something. Apparently, she’s been ordered to reflect on her actions.”

Chihara’s mind raced. It didn’t add up. Murakami was notoriously meek, practically allergic to confrontation. How could she possibly offend the highest authority in the production bureau? Still, rumors rarely materialized out of thin air. Perhaps in her zeal for the show, combined with lingering intoxication, she’d demanded an absurdly high budget and angered the committee. Stranger things had happened.

Before Chihara could decide whether to page Murakami for clarification, a knock sounded at the door. A young man peered in, asking politely, “Excuse me, is Chihara-sensei here?”

Chihara stepped out from behind the partition, eyeing the stranger curiously. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”

The man smiled apologetically. “Kurata-san, our senior managing director, would like to see you. My apologies for interrupting, but could you please come with me?”

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