The last day of 1987 arrived beneath a light snowfall in Tokyo.
Unlike the usual frantic energy of the city, tonight Tokyo felt strangely divided. Ginza and Roppongi overflowed with people. Office workers flush with year-end bonuses, hostesses wrapped in fur coats, and newly rich men roaring through the streets in Ferraris all drowned themselves in alcohol and neon, desperately clutching the final hours of the year.
Yet at the Saionji Main Family Residence in Bunkyo Ward, an almost otherworldly quiet prevailed. Thick walls shut out the clamor of the outside world. Stone lanterns in the garden cast a soft yellow glow across snow-dusted five-needle pines.
Inside the main dining room, underfloor heating wrapped the space in spring-like warmth. A long redwood table seated only two people. The faint aroma of bonito broth filled the air—the unmistakable scent of toshikoshi soba.
Shuichi set down his chopsticks, lifted the lacquered sake cup, and took a sip of warm toso. The liquor slid smoothly down his throat, bringing a pleasant heat. He looked across at his daughter, who ate her noodles in small, elegant bites, and felt an indescribable sense of contentment rise within him.
This year had been like a wild roller-coaster ride. From early anxiety to careful planning, and finally to the earth-shaking sniper operation on Black Monday in October, the Saionji family had not merely survived—it had emerged stronger and more secure than ever. The enormous dollars repatriated by S.A. Investment, the cultural storm stirred by S-Collection in Shibuya, and the quietly expanding karaoke empire had all swelled Shuichi's ambitions as family head to new heights.
Even on New Year's Eve, his mind turned instinctively to the next moves on the board. With hundreds of billions in cash and a firm position in Tokyo secured, should 1988 bring an even bolder advance?
His gaze drifted to the large map of Tokyo newly hung on the wall. Colored dots marked the family's current assets in dense clusters, yet large blank spaces remained along the coastal sub-centers and in untouched prime plots downtown—vacuums of power waiting to be filled.
"Satsuki," Shuichi said at last, his voice carrying both curiosity and the thrill of battle. "The situation is excellent. With our funds so abundant, I was thinking that next year's strategy should focus on—"
He set the sake cup down and leaned forward, the gesture he always made when discussing major moves. "The Ministry of Finance has hinted at large-scale redevelopment of coastal areas. Several old buildings in Otemachi may come up for sale. If we seize the momentum and secure one or two landmark projects, the Saionji family's position in the financial world will be completely solidified. Moreover, S.A. holds so much idle cash. If we do not put it to work, inflation alone will erode its value. Should we announce a new initiative at the first morning meeting after the holiday?"
"Father."
Satsuki's clear voice gently interrupted his flow of grand plans. She did not look up. Instead, she focused on picking up the last golden, crispy fried shrimp tail from her bowl, her movements slow and graceful, as though the shrimp tail mattered far more than any priceless real-estate project.
"Hmm?" Shuichi paused, surprised. "Do you think these directions are mistaken? Or do you have a better suggestion?"
He assumed she was about to unveil another visionary scheme, perhaps pointing to a spot on the map and declaring it a future gold mine. He was already prepared to take notes.
But Satsuki did not glance at the map. She placed the shrimp tail in her mouth, chewed it carefully, swallowed, and gently dabbed the corner of her lips with a napkin. Only then did she raise her eyes and look steadily at her father.
"Father, what time is it now?"
Shuichi blinked, caught off guard, and glanced at the Patek Philippe on his wrist. "Eleven forty-five. Fifteen minutes until the New Year."
"Yes, fifteen minutes left." Satsuki cupped her hot tea with both hands, savoring the warmth of the porcelain. "That means 1987 is nearly over, and you are still talking about work."
Shuichi gave an awkward chuckle. "What does it matter? Business is a battlefield. Opportunities vanish quickly. Since we hold the advantage, we should press it while—"
"No, Father." Satsuki shook her head gently. Her eyes lacked their usual strategic sharpness; instead they held a softness more natural to her age, even a touch of laziness. "Even the most precise Swiss watch will break if wound too tightly. Even the strongest steam locomotive must stop to take on water and coal, allowing the boiler to cool."
She pointed a slender finger at the thick document lying closed on the table—the 1987 Annual Settlement of S.A. Group. "This year we have run too fast. This war chariot has operated at full overload for three hundred and sixty-five days."
Her voice remained soft, yet it carried undeniable weight. "Your nerves are stretched too thin, Father. Have you noticed the extra white hairs at your temples lately?"
Shuichi instinctively touched his temples. The mental excitement masked a deep fatigue he could no longer deny. Over the past year he had managed complex business affairs while navigating the old foxes of politics and finance at The Club. The strain was beyond what most men could bear.
"But…" he began, still reluctant. "Gold lies everywhere right now. If we pause, won't others overtake us? Yoshiaki Tsutsumi is moving aggressively."
"Let them run," Satsuki said with a smile. "In this frenzied era, running faster is not always wiser. Sometimes knowing when to apply the brakes matters more than knowing when to press the accelerator."
She rose, walked around the long table, and stood behind her father. Her small hands settled lightly on his broad shoulders and began to massage with perfect pressure.
"The Saionji family is now like a giant who has just feasted. We devoured too much on Wall Street and dined too richly in Ginza. If we keep opening our mouths to swallow more, even the strongest stomach will suffer indigestion. We need time to digest these hundreds of billions and truly integrate them into our body. We need time for the newly acquired companies to adjust to our rhythm and for the new employees to absorb our culture. This is what is called the breaking-in period."
Her fingers worked with almost magical skill, gradually easing the tension in his shoulders and neck.
"So, Father," she whispered close to his ear, "can we set aside next year's plans—the buildings, the land, the stocks—for now? At least tonight, on this New Year's Eve that belongs only to us as father and daughter, let us keep money and business away from this table."
Shuichi sat stunned. He felt the warmth of her small hands and heard the near-pleading tone—though it carried more command than request. The fierce flame of ambition that had driven him forward all year miraculously subsided. In its place rose a long-forgotten gentleness that belonged simply to a father.
How long had it been since he had enjoyed a meal without discussing deals? How long since he had spoken with his daughter about school life or popular television shows instead of exchange rates and stock prices?
He looked at the fourteen-year-old girl across from him. Though she possessed wisdom far beyond her years and steered a vast business empire, beneath the soft lighting she was still a child who had not yet grown up. She could grow tired. She needed rest.
"It is my fault," Shuichi said, his voice exceptionally gentle and tinged with guilt. "I have grown too accustomed to looking ahead and sometimes forget that it is also necessary to stop and enjoy the view."
He reached up and patted the back of her hand. "You are right. Machines need to cool down, and people need rest even more. Since it is New Year's Eve, let us set aside all those wretched reports, maps, and plans."
He stood, picked up the offending annual report, and walked to the side cabinet. He opened the bottom drawer and pushed the document inside.
Click.
The drawer closed, as though sealing away the noisy, greedy, calculating world of business.
"There." Shuichi turned back with a relaxed smile. "Now there is only Saionji Shuichi and his daughter Saionji Satsuki. No president, no chairman."
He pointed toward the more comfortable kotatsu nearby. "It is warmer there. Let us eat some oranges and watch television. After the enka singer finishes, isn't that popular idol group due to appear?"
Satsuki looked at her father, who seemed to have shed a thousand-pound burden, and the corners of her mouth curved in quiet satisfaction. This was exactly what she had wanted. In an era of frantic acceleration, preserving a clear mind mattered more than blind expansion. And the first requirement for clarity was sufficient margin.
Changing her father's thinking had proven easier than expected. Ambition was not so easily tamed, yet he was indeed worth cultivating.
"They are Hikaru Genji, Father," Satsuki corrected with a smile, taking his hand and leading him toward the kotatsu. "They are the dream lovers of every girl in Japan right now."
"Really? Then I must see what sort of young men could captivate my daughter."
"I am not captivated. I am merely studying their commercial value…"
"Hey, hey, stop right there!" Shuichi raised a hand in mock anger. "Who was it that said no business talk tonight?"
"Ah, sorry. Professional habit." Satsuki stuck out her tongue, showing a rare playful expression.
Father and daughter slipped beneath the warm kotatsu. On the low table sat a basket of golden honey oranges and a pot of hot tea. On the television, NHK's Kōhaku Uta Gassen had reached its climax. A group of young idols on roller skates darted across the stage, singing the hit "Glass no Jūdai."
"Kowaresō na mono bakari atsumete shimau yo…" (I always end up collecting things that seem about to break…)
Their youthful, energetic voices brimmed with vitality yet carried the fragile undertone of the era.
Shuichi peeled an orange, handed a segment to his daughter, and ate one himself. "So sweet," he sighed. "Sweeter than anything served in those high-end Ginza restaurants."
"Because the mood is different," Satsuki replied, eating her orange while watching the screen. "In those restaurants everything is about appearances; no matter how delicious the food, it tastes ordinary. At home we can savor it properly. Besides, the fruit in Ginza is not necessarily better than ours."
Shuichi studied his daughter's profile. The shifting light from the television played across her face.
"Satsuki."
"Hmm?"
"Are you truly not anxious about next year's matters?" he asked, though without urgency—only quiet confirmation.
"Not at all." Satsuki turned to him, her gaze clear and steady. "It is like planting trees. This year we sowed the seeds and set the saplings. Next year we must water them, fertilize them, and watch them take root. S-Collection needs time to establish its brand culture rather than open stores frantically. The karaoke boxes need time to shape customer habits. The Shanghai factory needs time to refine its processes. All of this requires patience."
She gestured toward the night beyond the window. "The people outside are probably still making frantic phone calls and anxiously calculating next year's profits. They wish they could split every hour in two. But we will do the opposite. We will learn to move slowly. We will become elegant observers in this fast-paced era. Only by resting well and gathering strength can we, when the true opportunity—the peak—arrives, jump higher and bite harder than anyone else."
At that point Satsuki yawned and lay her head on the table like a lazy cat. "And… Father, I am tired too. This year I had to manage school exams—though they were simple—and keep watch over Itakura. I am still a middle-school student who is growing."
The words struck the softest place in Shuichi's heart. He noticed the faint shadows beneath her eyes and felt a pang of pain. She was only fourteen. Other girls her age chased idols, gossiped about boys in the next class, and sulked over new clothes. Yet she carried the fate of the entire family and matched wits with the wolves of Wall Street and Tokyo's financial giants.
"Sleep, Satsuki." Shuichi reached out and gently stroked her long hair, his touch as tender as if soothing a kitten that had finally retracted its claws. "Let us rest. Even a short nap is fine."
Looking at her tired yet still stubborn face, he added softly, "At least wait until after Coming-of-Age Day on January fifteenth, when the New Year restlessness has eased a little…"
Satsuki nuzzled against his palm and answered drowsily, "Hmm… half a month. That should be enough."
She opened her eyes slightly. Though her body demanded sleep, her mind remained clear. "In 1987 we caught the wind in the sky. In 1988 we must return to the ground, plant trees, and build roads. The groundwork for industry can begin. If the industrial foundation is not solid, no matter how high we fly we are only a kite; once the string breaks, everything is lost."
Shuichi nodded silently. Becoming addicted to the thrill of making hundreds of millions with a single stroke on Wall Street while scorning the slow, steady work of earning through industry was unacceptable. She saw more clearly than anyone: finance was merely a tool; industry was the goal.
"Very well," Shuichi said, tucking the blanket around her more securely, his voice firm. "We will work hard together next year. But for now, your only task is to sleep."
"Hmm…"
Satsuki's breathing gradually became even and deep.
At that moment a deep, resonant bell sounded outside the window.
"Dong—"
The first New Year's Eve bell rang from nearby Gokoku-ji Temple. Then Zōjō-ji, Sensō-ji, and temples across Tokyo joined in, their tones rising and falling in a solemn wave across the cold night sky.
On television the host began an excited countdown. "Ten, nine, eight…"
Shuichi did not join in. He sat quietly by the kotatsu, listening to the soul-cleansing bells. One by one they seemed to place a period on the frenzied year of 1987.
This year the Saionji family had completed its primitive accumulation amid financial storms. The coming year of 1988 would be the crucial period when those ethereal numbers transformed into steel, concrete, cotton fabric, and business networks. If 1987 had been hunting, 1988 would be farming. Farming was often harder than hunting, yet far more enduring.
"It is 1988," Shuichi whispered as the final bell faded.
He turned to look out the window. Against the backdrop of the bells, countless fireworks soared into the sky, illuminating Tokyo's night. Outside, the snow fell heavier, blanketing the city and temporarily covering its restless desires and ambitions beneath a pure white, dreamlike veil.