Mid-December 1987 brought a dry, biting cold to Tokyo.
Ota Ward, Suzuki Electronics Factory.
The air inside the workshop still carried the sharp, familiar scent of molten solder mingled with the burnt odor of heated machine oil. Two years earlier, that smell had filled Suzuki Emi with shame whenever she returned to Seika Academy. Now it was different.
"Zzz— Zzz—"
The new automated wave-soldering machines hummed at full speed, precisely bonding delicate electronic components onto green printed circuit boards.
"Amy! It's incredible! Truly incredible!"
President Suzuki burst into the office, face flushed with excitement, waving a faxed order sheet.
"Nintendo has placed an additional order for five hundred thousand interface components! They need stock for next year's Dragon Quest III! The unit price is double what it used to be!"
His hands trembled with joy. "If you hadn't insisted two years ago that we use that money to buy land and upgrade the production line, we would have been pushed out of the supply chain by now because of insufficient capacity!"
Amy sat behind the slightly worn desk, holding the latest issue of Radio Technology. She looked up and pushed her thick-rimmed glasses higher on her nose.
Though she remained somewhat plump, her entire bearing had changed. She wore a cream-colored cashmere coat from S-Collection's current limited collection that fit neatly around her frame. The school skirt that once embarrassed her was hidden beneath the coat, replaced by an unmistakable air of confidence.
"Dad, Saionji-san told us," Amy said, closing the magazine. "'The future is not in land, but in chips.' Nintendo is only the beginning. Next will come NEC's PC-Engine and Sony. As long as we maintain our technical edge, we will never go hungry even if we no longer depend on Nintendo."
"Yes, yes! Miss Saionji is a god!" President Suzuki locked the order away in the safe as though it were treasure. "Amy, aren't you meeting your classmates in Shinjuku tonight? Do you have enough money? Shall I give you another two hundred thousand?"
"No need. I have enough."
Amy stood and walked to the mirror. She lifted her cuff and sniffed. A faint trace of solder still clung to the fabric from the workshop. She no longer found it unpleasant. It was the smell of money. It was what Satsuki had called "the smell of the future." Since Satsuki had said so, it had to be true. Now she rather liked that scent.
At the same time, in a rundown wooden apartment in Machiya, Arakawa Ward, cold wind whistled through the gaps around the windows.
"Cough, cough, cough…"
Okura Masami knelt on the tatami, gently wiping the back of her father's hand with a damp towel. The room was freezing; to save electricity she kept the heater on its lowest setting.
The once-arrogant girl who had ruled Seika Academy and mocked Suzuki Emi as a "poor country bumpkin" now wore a pilled old sweater, her hair tied back carelessly. Her mother had fled to her parents' home with what little money remained. Her father's illness had consumed nearly all their savings, leaving only a frail body and mountains of debt.
The mansions, sports cars, and designer bags of the past felt like scenes from another life. All that remained were endless bills and a future without hope.
"Masami… aren't you going to class?" her father asked weakly.
"I'll go tomorrow. I have a night shift tonight."
Masami rose and took a cheap down jacket from the wall hook. "Just rest. The medicine is on the table. I'm leaving."
She did not turn to meet her father's guilty eyes. Guilt could not buy bread or pay the rent.
Outside, the cold wind struck her face. She tucked her neck into her collar and hurried toward the subway station. She was heading to Shinjuku, where a café needed a night-shift waitress at 1,200 yen per hour. The work was exhausting and required enduring rude customers, but it paid better than anything else she could find.
In the reflection of the subway window she saw her pale face. Once she had scorned people who worked desperately for a few thousand yen, dismissing it as the life of the lower class. Now she had become one of them.
Shinjuku, Kabukicho. Retro café "Romance."
This elegant establishment, with its crystal chandeliers, red velvet sofas, and aroma of fine coffee, had long been a favorite gathering spot for Seika Academy girls after school.
Four girls occupied a window booth.
"Amy, look! I just bought the Final Fantasy cartridge!"
"Forget the games. Amy, your coat is gorgeous. Is that the limited edition from S-Collection?"
Amy sat at the center, sipping Blue Mountain coffee while casually leafing through the game magazine her classmate had handed her.
"That game is only average," she remarked. "But Nintendo is planning something big next month. You should save your pocket money. Don't say I didn't warn you."
"Wow! Really? Amy always knows everything first!"
Admiring voices rose around her. Not long ago these same girls had clustered around Okura Masami and mocked Amy as a "freak." Since Amy had become one of Saionji Satsuki's closest followers and displayed genuine financial power, the balance of power had shifted. As one of the first to align with Satsuki, Amy had become a prominent figure at school.
"Waitress! More water here!"
One of the girls called out.
After a moment a figure in a brown hat and uniform approached, carrying a water pitcher. She moved slowly, as though her legs troubled her.
"P-please enjoy," she said, her voice hoarse and trembling.
As she poured, her wrist shook—perhaps from exhaustion or nerves. A few drops of hot water splashed onto the table and landed on the sleeve of Amy's expensive coat.
"Oh!" the girl beside Amy shrieked. "How can you be so careless? This coat costs two hundred thousand yen! Can you afford to replace it if it's ruined?"
She started to rise to scold the waitress, but Amy stopped her.
"It's fine." Amy took out a silk handkerchief and gently dabbed her cuff. "It's only a little water."
She looked up at the waitress. "Next time, be care—"
She stopped mid-sentence.
The waitress lifted her head in panic to apologize. The moment their eyes met, both froze.
That once-proud face—always wearing the latest lipstick, always looking down on others—belonged to Okura Masami.
Now her complexion was ashen, her lips cracked. Strands of dull, split hair escaped from beneath her hat. Her ill-fitting uniform carried the heavy, cheap scent of detergent.
A heavy silence fell over the table. The other girls recognized her too. Soft gasps rippled through the group.
"My god… is that Okura?"
"Really? How did she end up like this?"
"I heard her father went bankrupt… Tsk, she used to be so arrogant. Karma, I suppose."
The whispers cut into Masami like knives. Her hands shook; water sloshed inside the pitcher. She wanted to run, but her legs felt leaden.
She looked at Amy. The "little fatty" she had once trampled upon now wore a coat Masami could never afford, jewelry Masami had once coveted, and regarded her with an expression she could not read. Was it mockery? Pity?
If this had been the old Amy, she would have lowered her head in fear. If this had been the old Masami, she would have slapped the girl. But now the roles were reversed.
"Okura-san," Amy said calmly, without a trace of mockery. "Are you working here?"
"…Yes."
Masami lowered her head, her voice barely audible. Her nails dug into her palms. Every shred of pride she still possessed shattered in that moment. She braced herself for humiliation. Even if a glass of water were thrown in her face, she would accept it.
It never came.
Amy simply looked at her, a flicker of complicated emotion crossing her eyes. She remembered that afternoon two years earlier beneath the wisteria trellis, when a girl with obsidian eyes had told her: "In the future, if anyone laughs at the smell on you again, just tell them it is the smell of the future."
Now Amy carried that scent of the future, while Okura Masami carried only the scent of the past. The outcome had already been decided. Stepping on her again would achieve nothing and would only make Amy appear small-minded, disgracing Satsuki in the process.
"It must be hard work," Amy said quietly.
She took five crisp ten-thousand-yen bills from her Hermès wallet and placed them gently beneath the bill rather than throwing them.
"Nintendo's new game this month is quite enjoyable. If you have time, you should try it."
Amy stood and straightened her coat. "Keep the change."
She picked up her bag and turned to her classmates. "Let's go. Weren't you saying we should visit S.A. KTV? I have a black card. I'll show you the legendary Ghost Guide Vocal."
In truth any of them could easily reserve a private room for an entire month, yet they still cheered and rose, surrounding Amy as they left. No one spared Okura Masami another glance. She had become no more noticeable than a patch of withered moss by the roadside.
Masami remained standing, still holding the heavy pitcher. She stared at the fifty thousand yen—brand-new, crisp, gleaming under the lights.
Was this charity? No. It was something crueler than charity. It was complete indifference.
In Suzuki Emi's eyes, Okura Masami was no longer an opponent worth hating, nor even someone worth humiliating. She was merely a waitress, an insignificant background figure.
"Heh…"
Masami let out a dry laugh. Tears fell onto the bills. She reached out with her roughened hand, seized the money, and clutched it tightly. It burned against her palm, searing her heart. Yet she could not throw it away. That sum would cover her family's living expenses for nearly half a month.
"Welcome…"
The wind chime at the door rang as new customers entered. Masami wiped her tears, forced a humble smile, and bowed.
Under the neon lights of Shinjuku, some young people headed to S.A. KTV rooms to enjoy the comforting voice of the hidden singer known as ZARD. Others remained in the café, bending their backs for survival.
And Saionji Satsuki, sitting quietly in her study in Azabu-Juban, did not need to lift a finger. The tide of the era had delivered this harsh judgment for her.
Survival of the fittest—nothing more.