Otaku Translation: Absolute Number One C63

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Chapter 63: I Have Professional Ethics

The bar was comfortably cool, and without her coat, Murakami Iori looked noticeably thinner than usual. Her shoulders seemed narrower, accentuating a more delicate femininity. Her makeup was immaculate—likely touched up upon hearing Chihara’s arrival—but a closer look revealed red-rimmed eyes with traces of tears.

Chihara pretended not to notice, smiling lightly. “It wasn’t just for you—I’ve resigned too. I’m free as a bird now.”

Murakami paused mid-gesture while signaling the bartender, disbelief washing over her face. Then, gratitude softened her features.

Yes, she was deeply moved. She adored and had hoped to continue working on it long-term. But now, stripped of her role and punished, she felt suffocated by frustration and pain. Chihara’s immediate solidarity offered profound comfort—far more than words ever could. How could she not be touched?

If became another hit under ’s leadership, imagining her former collaborators aiding her “enemy” would crush her. To them, her past efforts would mean nothing; her presence rendered irrelevant. She might end up sobbing into a pillow at home.

Actions spoke louder than words. Chihara’s unwavering support affirmed her worth in ways no other gesture could. It was priceless.

Her eyes welled up again, but she bit her lip tightly, forcing herself not to cry in front of him. After a moment of emotion, her cheeks flushed as if alcohol suddenly surged through her veins. Her gaze darted nervously toward an iron-latticed wall lamp, avoiding his clear, bright eyes. Softly, she murmured, “Chihara, maybe you don’t know… I don’t plan to date or marry anytime soon. Um, Chihara, do you…”

Chihara, reaching out to order a drink himself since sitting idle felt awkward, froze momentarily, utterly speechless. Where did that come from? He didn’t see her that way—they were friends!

Stop jumping to conclusions, he thought. I have professional ethics. Work is work—I’d never mix it with office romance!

Quickly abandoning the drink order, he waved his hands emphatically. “Don’t misunderstand it! I already have someone.”

Murakami exhaled deeply, visibly relieved. Nearly five years older than Chihara, she admired his talent, drive, and work ethic—but purely platonically.

With relief came concern about potential awkwardness. Hastily changing the subject, she signaled the bartender. Smiling, she asked, “Is that so? You never mentioned this before. What does she do?”

Chihara hesitated briefly before choosing “student” over “waitress.” Sighing, he replied, “She’s still in school.”

“An old classmate? Wonderful! Introduce us sometime,” Murakami said warmly, turning toward the approaching bartender. “, get Chihara whatever he wants—it’s on me!”

She glanced at Chihara expectantly. Drawing on memories of the original host body’s familiarity with bars, he answered smoothly, “A ‘,’ hold the tequila and absinthe.”

The bartender frowned slightly. Without those ingredients, it was essentially sugar-free cola. Ordering soda at a bar? Still, professionalism prevailed. He poured a large glass of cola, setting it before Chihara with a polite smile. “First-timer? First round’s on the house.”

Murakami grinned. “Thanks, Bob.”

The bartender retreated into the shadows. This was a decompression bar—he listened when needed—but sensing their intent to converse, discretion was key.

Chihara paid him no mind, instead asking curiously, “Do you come here often?”

“Yes, sometimes when things feel overwhelming—or…” Murakami hesitated, deciding honesty was best with Chihara. Smiling faintly, she admitted, “Or when the pressure feels unbearable, like I’m about to collapse—I hide here.”

Chihara scanned the dimly lit space. Nodding, he observed, “It’s cozy despite its size. The low lighting creates distance yet avoids loneliness—a perfect place to unwind.”

“Yes, sometimes I come straight here after sleepless nights.”

“Avoid drinking too much. Alcohol accelerates aging.”

Their conversation flowed naturally. Though Chihara hadn’t uttered a single word of consolation, Murakami felt the oppressive weight in her chest gradually lift. Her expression softened, and impulsively, she murmured, “Chihara, thank you. Really… Maybe your resignation can still be reversed?”

Seeing Chihara’s stance reassured her. She felt compelled to spare him further trouble—his promising career shouldn’t suffer for a fleeting impulse.

Chihara chuckled confidently. “Even if it could, I wouldn’t take it back. I refuse to hand my hard work over to Ishii.”

Murakami struggled to dissuade him further—it might seem ungrateful—but enduring temporary indignities was part of workplace survival. Unsure how to explain, she sighed, “But your future…”

“It’s fine. I have backup plans. Nothing will hinder me.” Chihara’s confidence shone brightly. “Murakami-san, some lines can’t be crossed!”

He envisioned meeting anyone’s gaze unflinchingly someday, declaring boldly: “I’ve never betrayed a comrade. Trust me—if you walk with me, struggle alongside me, we’ll share triumphs and hardships equally, bound by mutual fate!”

This mattered far more to him than fleeting gains.

Murakami lacked his optimism. Sighing softly, she murmured, “Chihara, it’s not that simple. Ishii isn’t the real issue—just a minor nuisance. But defying the organization so openly… You’re new here. You don’t know their power or what lengths they’ll go to save face.”

“What can they possibly do?” Chihara shrugged dismissively. A long-term contract might pose issues—perhaps they’d lock him away until he submitted—but with less than two weeks left? Backing down now would show utter spinelessness.

Murakami sighed, offering examples. “For instance, you’ll likely never win the unless you publicly apologize.”

“Can one network dictate awards?”

“Awards are divvied up politically. Every major winner involves all five networks sharing spoils evenly. Over time, you’ll understand—it’s meticulously balanced. Even joining another big network won’t help if opposes you. Pushing for your win risks losing more awards overall, benefiting only the remaining three networks. Such incidents have occurred repeatedly.”

Chihara pondered briefly. Could TEB prioritize face-saving to such extremes? Knowing ’s obsession with appearances, it wasn’t impossible.

Still, he remained unfazed. Solutions always outnumbered obstacles. Standing firm required sacrifices—it was inevitable. Smiling, he asked, “We’ll discuss this later. For now… What exactly happened during the programming committee meeting? Mind sharing?”

Though he guessed most of it, curiosity lingered.

Murakami smiled ruefully. “Of course, I made a huge blunder. They wanted me to transfer the production team to Ishii, ensuring stability for next season’s ratings. I refused, asking why. Their reasons were unacceptable—though unspoken, it boiled down to trusting men more with primetime slots. Losing control, I accused them of gender bias. Why deny me opportunities? Was there an invisible ceiling above me? In anger, I dragged into it, questioning whether marrying rich was necessary for recognition… Looking back, it was foolish—it wasn’t her fault. The environment simply is what it is.”

Chihara nodded sympathetically. Remaining calm after having your labor seized would require sainthood.

Concerned, he probed, “What punishment did you receive?”

Murakami spoke matter-of-factly now. “Apparently, I’ll be dispatched to for business guidance—at least two years. If I don’t apologize, they’ll shuffle me to another regional station indefinitely.”

“Hokkaido North Television?” Chihara hadn’t heard of it—was this exile?

“—it’s tolerable compared to Northernmost Hokkaido Television. That area’s nearly deserted, filled with islands and mountains. Snowfall reaches four meters deep sometimes. Quite dramatic.”

Reaching into her bag, Murakami extracted a rolled-up scroll, handing it to Chihara sheepishly. “I stole this as a keepsake. But since you’ve left too, you should keep it. Maybe someday you’ll hang it again—I won’t have the chance.”

Pausing, she joked, “Don’t worry about me. I’ll adapt. Lavender’s their specialty—I’ll send you some essential oils for your girlfriend. She’ll love them.”

Chihara didn’t laugh along. Unrolling the scroll, he recognized his own calligraphy: “.” Beneath it were private seals of the three of them. Originally hung in , Murakami must’ve taken it, knowing she’d never return.

Her emotions then must’ve been complex.

Setting the scroll aside, he stated earnestly, “Forget Hokkaido North Television. Let’s stay in , switch networks, and keep going! We’re both known now—finding jobs won’t be hard. No need to endure this indignity.”

Murakami shook her head, sipping her drink before smiling. “I’m different from you, Chihara. My entire foundation lies within TEB. Leaving means diminishing my value—other networks won’t trust a producer not groomed by them.”

Seeing Chihara about to protest, she hurriedly added, “I appreciate your intention—to negotiate conditions together—but I can’t burden you again. You’ll find a better producer who’ll elevate your program. I’ve lost that ability…”

“Don’t think that way. I genuinely believe in your potential—not romantically!” Chihara clarified hastily, fearing another misunderstanding. Seriously, he continued, “Producing a great show isn’t a solo endeavor. Alone, I can’t achieve everything. But aiming higher requires trustworthy partners. Helping each other isn’t a burden.”

He wasn’t pitying Murakami. Despite her current shortcomings and lack of connections, she possessed invaluable qualities—courage and dedication. Connections and experience accumulated over time; initial inadequacies weren’t insurmountable. Everyone had growing pains.

Moreover, he bore partial responsibility for her plight. Had he not pushed the creative team so relentlessly for instant success, spreading the effort across three or four seasons might’ve allowed Murakami time to build networks and find allies. Instead, she faced the programming committee defenseless.

Thus, he reasoned, why not form a “revenge alliance”? Together, they could seek funding for a new project—better than being saddled with an unknown producer, potentially another Ishii-type character. Unlike earlier days, he now sought a reliable team and long-term companions.

His sincerity was evident. Murakami fell silent, contemplating before replying, “What if something similar happens again? I can’t derail you twice…”

“I have solutions. It depends on you.” Respecting her autonomy, Chihara asked gently, “Take your time to consider. There’s no rush…”

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