Otaku Translation: Absolute Number One C101

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Chapter 101: What Will the Next Episode Bring?

was an ordinary office worker, a term often referred to as ""—or, more colloquially in later years, "," a portmanteau of "company" (会社) and "livestock" (家畜). It was a phrase that elegantly described employees who were essentially slaves to their corporations.

Unlike Yamagami Aiko and her friends, whose excitement bubbled over after watching , Kajiwara felt a heavy weight settle in his chest. One line in particular struck him like a swift, unadorned fastball aimed directly at his heart: "A subordinate’s achievements belong to their superior, but a superior’s mistakes become the subordinate’s burden."

The 1990s were perhaps the most pressure-laden era for , far exceeding what most people could imagine. Japan revered , which inherently emphasized hierarchical structures. Combined with the Japanese tendency toward extremes, this created an almost suffocating adherence to rigid hierarchies in professional settings. Authority flowed top-down: seniority reigned supreme, elders commanded respect, males held higher status than females, and those lower in rank were expected to use honorific language constantly, always mindful of their superiors' feelings and positions. Dissent or individuality from subordinates was not tolerated; newcomers were expected to endure hardships silently, mirroring the struggles endured by their predecessors.

For instance, berated as if she were his grandson, and Murakami—his direct junior—dared not retort, instead enduring the scolding quietly. Similarly, when Murakami’s hard work on a program was commandeered without recognition, her fleeting anger led to her being exiled to Hokkaido North Television as punishment for daring to harbor personal thoughts rather than submit unconditionally to authority.

In such an environment, standing out meant facing ostracism, while remaining silent invited being trampled upon. Finding balance was nearly impossible, leaving workers trapped in daily anguish. The only hope lay in the distant dream of eventually ascending through the ranks—from underling to elder, from novice to veteran—earning just enough clout to speak up without fear of repercussions, even something as trivial as passing gas without worrying about offending someone higher up.

Beyond these hierarchical pressures, other sources compounded workplace stress: performance quotas, toxic overtime cultures, convoluted interpersonal dynamics, and the perpetual dance of taking responsibility versus shifting blame. These layers formed a suffocating multi-pressure system. Yet, resignation or rebellion wasn’t easily attainable. In the 1990s, and remained foundational pillars of Japanese companies.

Under lifetime employment, quitting left a permanent stain on one’s career, making it nearly impossible to regain trust elsewhere and cutting off long-term financial stability. With the economy still reeling from the bursting of the , few dared risk unemployment. Meanwhile, defying authority under the seniority system jeopardized any chance of advancement—who would sacrifice their future for fleeting satisfaction?

Unable to vent frustration or resist, Kajiwara found himself sinking deeper into despair. He worked at a large advertising company, tirelessly putting in long hours, yet his design achievements were effortlessly claimed by his superiors, who were also his seniors. Even when errors were the result of the directives he’d been explicitly ordered to follow by those superiors, he alone bore the blame—and was forced to bow for fifteen minutes in the office to offer his apology.

Sometimes, standing on the train platform after work, he stared at the tracks, contemplating whether jumping would finally bring peace. But such thoughts remained fleeting—he had no choice but to keep living.

After finishing the first episode of Hanzawa Naoki, though he wasn’t an elite banker like Hanzawa, Kajiwara saw reflections of his own struggles in the protagonist’s experiences. Hard work went unrecognized, tasks assigned by superiors required endless overtime, and leaders shirked accountability while dumping blame onto subordinates. When Hanzawa stood tall, defiantly vowing to recover the five hundred million yen loan, Kajiwara trembled—not just physically, but from deep within his soul. For the first time in ages, he felt a surge of long-forgotten passion.

Passion wasn’t supposed to exist in the corporate world, yet here he was, drawing inspiration from a workplace drama. He yearned to leap into the screen and help Hanzawa reclaim that money. To Kajiwara, Hanzawa was everything he aspired to be: a diligent banker, a loyal subordinate, a capable leader, and someone with courage, ambition, and resourcefulness. Though similar to him in some ways, Hanzawa surpassed him—Kajiwara lacked the bravery to defy his superiors or challenge his seniors.

He also envied Hanzawa’s close-knit group of peers, who could commiserate about shared grievances and discuss their futures together. That camaraderie was absent in his life. On some level, he wished to become Hanzawa but feared doing so, his emotions tangled in complexity. After finishing the first episode, he sat clutching a beer, lost in thought, watching half of Human Observation before finally turning off the TV.

Would Hanzawa succeed in recovering the five hundred million yen? How would he overcome this daunting challenge? Could he resist until the bitter end, bringing shame upon the corrupt branch manager and shattering his dreams of promotion?

What would the next episode bring?

---

As Kajiwara turned off his television, ’s set remained on, playing Human Observation in the background. However, Awata paid it little mind, treating it as ambient noise while focusing on deeper thoughts.

In his hand was a glass of green vegetable juice—a somewhat comical sight for a grown man—but as an actor still climbing the ladder, alcohol was a formidable adversary. While unavoidable during networking events, he avoided it otherwise, fearing premature stiffness in facial muscles that might hinder subtle expressions. If that happened, he’d have to rely on exaggerated "face acting" to make ends meet.

Taking a sip of the juice, he reflected on Hanzawa Naoki. Regret lingered—he believed the role suited him perfectly, and he was confident he could have delivered a standout performance. Unfortunately, circumstances conspired against him, leaving Sugano Makoto to take the part.

This disappointment wasn’t catastrophic; opportunities abounded in the fiercely competitive TV landscape. Still, Sugano’s presence gave him pause. Around the same age, with similar looks and compatible roles, Sugano had already demonstrated impressive acting skills and unique charisma in the first episode. Though partly bolstered by the character’s design, his talent was undeniable. He might pose a serious threat in the future.

Such concerns couldn’t be ignored. If six or seven major productions aired this season requiring mature, stable male leads in their thirties, casting directors wouldn’t consider others once Awata made his choice—he was currently unmatched in that category. Top-tier projects demanded the best, leaving second-rate actors behind.

Could Sugano challenge his position as the leading actor in this niche?

At present, Sugano was merely picking up scraps Awata had discarded. But in the future, might Awata find himself scavenging leftovers?

What about awards competitions?

Would audiences and critics compare their performances and popularity?

If they did, could Awata win?

Lost in contemplation, Awata straightened on the couch. Initially, he’d merely intended to assess the season's big productions and gauge shifts in network strength. Instead, Kanto United TV had delivered a stunning surprise: a high-quality workplace drama with a clever angle, markedly different from its predecessors. Even judging solely by the first episode, Awata recognized its potential for success.

Chihara Rinto, eh? He underestimated the former TEB writer. Perhaps he should have insisted on a dinner meeting back then to discuss further.

Unease mingled with regret. Just then, Kawaguchi Keita, his agent, returned from a phone call. "It’s DOMMO’s actor, someone who’s been shelved for years. Took quite a bit of digging to uncover."

Awata sat up, intrigued. "Why would someone like that get shelved?"

"Past incidents of violent altercations resulting in serious injuries led to public backlash and self-imposed boycotts," Kawaguchi explained. As an agent, gathering industry intelligence was essential. Within half an hour of watching Hanzawa Naoki, he’d uncovered Sugano Makoto’s backstory. "Rumors say he disappeared for a while. No one knows where Chihara-sensei found him."

"Regardless of how he surfaced, Sugano now has another chance—a good one at that." Awata understood the precariousness of an actor’s career trajectory. Sometimes, a single drama could transform fortunes overnight. Having witnessed such transformations countless times, he knew resurrection was possible.

Kawaguchi glanced at him knowingly. "You’re not worried, are you? You always overthink things. This guy won’t threaten your status anytime soon. Don’t psyche yourself out."

With years of experience in the industry, Kawaguchi understood actors’ fears. The pool of top-tier resources was limited, and everyone worried about competition encroaching on their territory—it was natural.

He continued reassuringly, "Sure, Hanzawa Naoki looks promising so far, but it’s only the first episode. Who knows what lies ahead? Besides, our is also garnering great feedback. There’s nothing to worry about—for the next few years, he’ll remain beneath you. I can guarantee that."

Awata wasn’t as optimistic. Competition among actors was cutthroat. Falling to second place could drastically reduce opportunities. Male actors had it relatively easy compared to female counterparts, whose rivalries escalated to hiring private investigators to dig up dirt on each other. Half of a female actor’s PR efforts often targeted competitors, sparking vicious battles over coveted roles or awards.

It wasn’t innate aggression but a reflection of audience expectations—they applauded only the best, relegating others to mere scenery.

Though he said nothing further, Awata nodded agreeably. "You’re right. Let’s wait for tomorrow’s ratings."

Perhaps he should have scrutinized the script more carefully. But now, all he could do was hope the show flopped...

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