Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

Chapter 193 This winter is too cold

The last shred of dignity from the bubble era vanished before this cheap fruit knife.

Beneath the imposing dome of the Sumitomo Bank Shinjuku branch, a deathly silence reigned.

Shunichi Takahashi, once a charismatic and eloquent rising star in the credit industry, now lies limp on the ground like a dying fish, his face drained of all color.

The moment the cold, sharp blade pressed against his carotid artery, his proud professional barriers, his sense of superiority, and the arrogance of all financial elites were instantly torn to shreds.

A few seconds later, rapid footsteps accompanied by a roar of "Drop your weapons!" broke the deadlock.

Several fully armed police officers rushed into the lobby, their dark gun barrels pointed directly at the sofa area.

Yamada's wife was also helped to the door. Upon seeing her husband's state, she immediately cried out, "Enough, please—Yamada, enough—"

As if the cry had drained the last bit of strength from Yamada, the fruit knife that had been pressed firmly against Takahashi's carotid artery slipped limply and fell onto the thick wool carpet with a dull thud. Yamada then collapsed to his knees.

Upon seeing this, the police officers nearby rushed over and pinned his hands behind his back to the ground.

Yamada offered no resistance, only pressing his forehead against the carpet in despair, howling like a dying animal, repeatedly muttering heartbreaking words: "I can't pay it back—I really can't pay it back—I just wanted to buy Ri a house—"

Shunichi Takahashi, who was slumped to the side, was supported by two employees, but his facial muscles, which were convulsing uncontrollably due to extreme fear, just wouldn't stop.

He stared blankly at Yamada being roughly dragged away, at the fruit knife on the carpet, and then at the shameful wet stain on the edge of his trouser leg.

It was only at this moment that this high-ranking credit elite truly realized that the loans he had signed off on the reports over the past few months were not emotionless numbers.

They will transform into living, breathing people driven to madness by debt, wielding knives, and truly and vividly return to this magnificent bank lobby.

The hostage situation at Sumitomo Bank's Shinjuku branch ignited public opinion across Japan within just half an hour.

This time, even the chaebol's extraordinary methods couldn't suppress it.

Because there were too many witnesses in the lobby, Yamada's scathing accusations, Takahashi's limp and incontinent state, and those fateful lines that were almost identical to those in "The Collapsing Tower" were captured by countless cameras and quickly transmitted to the reporters who were like bloodthirsty jackals.

As evening approached, several major television stations began broadcasting these surreal and brutal scenes on a loop.

On the screen, Takahashi Shunichi, who once basked in the aura of a "rational financial elite" and chatted eloquently in the studio, now appeared pale, disheveled, and terrified, a stark contrast to his former commanding presence.

The media relentlessly dug into the incident, uncovering Takahashi's involvement in the "relay" scheme, the additional collateral trap, and his despicable act of repeatedly endorsing high-risk loans by using his "Kitahara Iwa University classmate" status.

Those customer interview records, loan briefing minutes, and performance incentive schemes that were once locked in bank vaults have now all become shocking headlines in newspapers.

Sumitomo Bank's star employee suspected of improperly promoting high-risk loans.

"The Broken Financing Chain of the 'Relay Baton': How Ordinary Families Are Pushed into a Debt Abyss"

From Rational Financial Elite to the Central Figure in a Hostage Situation: The Fall of Shunichi Takahashi

Faced with overwhelming public outrage, Sumitomo Bank's headquarters responded very efficiently.

Almost the day after the public outcry, the spokesperson announced at an emergency press conference with a somber expression that Shunichi Takahashi was suspected of serious violations of regulations and deviating from the headquarters' compliance principles, and had been completely suspended from his duties and handed over to the police.

In the past, the headquarters packaged him as a star and pushed him in front of the camera to endorse market confidence.

Now, as Yamada ruthlessly pierced the wrapping paper of this lie, this vast financial empire did not hesitate for a second before precisely cutting away this rotten piece of flesh.

On the third day, Takahashi Shunichi, who had just finished treating his superficial injuries at the hospital, was taken away by the police before he could even step into his home.

In front of the swarming media cameras, Shunichi Takahashi's hair was disheveled and his face was ashen; the carefully calculated elite smile he used to have was nowhere to be seen.

From the crowd, one of the more cynical reporters shouted at the top of his lungs, "Mr. Takahashi! Is now still a good time to buy at the bottom?"

Upon hearing this, Shunichi Takahashi froze in his tracks.

But he didn't turn around. Instead, he buried his head deep in his chest and hurriedly crawled into the police car under the escort of two officers.

The moment the car doors slammed shut, countless dazzling flashes of light pierced through the windows, illuminating his lifeless face as if he were a corpse.

Initially in the detention center, Takahashi tried to make feeble excuses by claiming that he was "implementing headquarters strategy" and that "the client signed voluntarily."

But as more and more families were brought to his doorstep in despair because of him, his mental defenses completely crumbled.

In the cold, cramped cell late at night, he would often stare wide-eyed at the gray walls, nervously repeating the arrogant words that had once won him applause: "A novel is a novel—economics is economics—a novel is just a novel—"

He chanted in an increasingly low voice, as if pleading with some deity to confirm his correctness.

But the walls offer no answer, and the crumbling era outside the iron bars will no longer applaud him.

This avalanche buried far more than just Shunichi Takahashi.

Back then, at that class reunion at Yinlin Manor, the middle-class elites who had gathered around the head seat, raising their glasses to ask for "secrets to buying at the bottom" and mocking Kitahara Iwa's excessive pessimism, have all fallen into an abyss of no return.

Someone who snapped up a high-priced apartment in Setagaya received a notice of additional collateral from the bank due to a sharp drop in its valuation.

Some people blindly believed in Takahashi's "high-quality asset portfolio" and mortgaged all of their wives' family's properties. Now, the second round of loan approval has been blocked, dragging both elderly people on both sides into the quagmire.

The elite clique that once thrived on frequent gatherings and boasted about their doubled assets over landline phones is now as desolate as a graveyard.

In this cold winter when everyone is on edge, they can only frantically dial each other's home phone numbers late at night.

Most of the time, all that comes through the receiver is the despairing automated voicemail message for those left behind.

Occasionally, by sheer luck, a call would get through, but instead of the former grand pronouncements of class superiority, a trembling voice tentatively inquired: "The news says Takahashi has been detained. Does Sumitomo Bank still acknowledge the bridge loans he privately guaranteed?"

All I got in return was a suffocating silence on the other end of the phone.

Late at night, Kitahara Iwa received a phone call from Matsui Kentaro.

After the call was connected, there was silence on the other end.

"Matsui?"

Several seconds passed before Kentaro Matsui's voice came through the phone.

"Iwa-kun."

Kentaro Matsui's voice was terribly hoarse, as if it had been smoked or as if he had just been crying.

Hearing Matsui Kentaro's tone, Kitahara Iwao didn't urge him, but simply responded with a word.

Only a desk lamp was lit in the study. Tokyo outside the window was still brightly lit, but the light no longer carried the glitz and fervor of a few months ago.

After a long silence, Kentaro Matsui finally managed to say with difficulty, "Something's happened."

"Who?"

The person on the other end of the phone visibly erratically began to breathe.

"It's Nakano."

Kentaro Matsui paused for a long time, as if trying to squeeze those words out of his throat.

"And also—Saeki, who sat next to him at Ginrin-sou that day."

At this moment, Kentaro Matsui's voice finally broke down, and he hurriedly said, "They couldn't stand the debt collectors, so they committed suicide."

"The police found it in Aokigahara."

"The person is gone."

After she finished speaking, a sob came from the other end of the phone.

It's like someone being gripped by immense fear and sorrow, only able to exhale little by little.

"Iwa-kun."

As if gripped by immense fear and grief, Kentaro Matsui said, "If you hadn't stopped me that day, I might be—"

Kentaro Matsui couldn't continue speaking.

Kitahara Iwa held the receiver in silence.

The extravagant scene of that night at Silver Scale Manor uncontrollably surfaced in my mind: under the dazzling crystal chandelier, beside the swaying red wine glasses, I and Matsui were respectfully welcomed to the seats of honor.

Meanwhile, sitting at the lower end of the table, Shunichi Takahashi, in an attempt to draw everyone's attention away from himself, began to enthusiastically peddle his "last ticket to ever-rising property prices."

Given Kitahara Iwa's social status, Nakano and Saeki naturally dared not utter a single disrespectful word. However, when the topic turned to asset allocation and upward mobility, they could not hide their fervor for money and frequently raised their glasses to Takahashi in agreement.

On that decadent night, rather than the social warnings in the novelist's writing, these ordinary middle-class people were more willing to believe without reservation the get-rich-quick myths woven by the suited credit elites.

At that time, everyone was so enthusiastic that they thought they were standing in an elevator of the times, but they had no idea that the elevator shaft beneath their feet had long since lost its bottom.

At that moment, Kentaro Matsui took a breath on the other end of the phone, his voice trembling even more violently.

They were laughing at you that day.

"You don't understand reality."

"Takahashi is the kind of person we ordinary people should listen to."

3

"But in the end—"

At this point, Kentaro Matsui seemed unable to hold back any longer, and a suppressed sob escaped his throat.

"In the end, only you saved me."

Kitahara Iwa closed his eyes.

Outside the window, a car drove by, its lights briefly sweeping across the study wall before disappearing again.

After a moment, Kitahara Iwa said in a low voice, "Matsui."

"Live well."

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone.

Kentaro Matsui nodded vigorously, his voice muffled as he said, "I know."

"I will live."

"I just—I just think this winter is too cold."

Kitahara Iwa didn't say anything more.

After the phone call ended, the study fell silent again.

The manuscript paper was still spread out on the table.

The pen was pressed against the edge of the paper, and the ink had already condensed into a small black dot at the tip.

But Kitahara Iwa hesitated to pick up his pen.

"Um----"

At this moment, even he couldn't tell whether he was watching history repeat itself or seeing chapters from "The Collapsing Tower" crawl from the pages into reality.

Following the hostage situation at the Shinjuku branch, the entire nation was gripped by panic.

In the past, when people read "The Collapsed Tower," they could tell themselves that it was just a novel.

Writers always tend to write things in more extreme ways, and tragedies are always arranged in a more concentrated manner; reality will never really go that far.

But when Yamada stormed into the Sumitomo Bank Shinjuku branch with a fruit knife, all his excuses were exposed.

That's not a character from the book.

A child is a living, breathing person.

He is a husband, a father, and an ordinary customer who once believed in banks, asset allocation, and the idea that prime locations would always appreciate in value.

Every word he shouted in the bank lobby felt like a scene from "The Collapsing Tower" falling directly into reality: "You said it would go up."

"You said this is the last chance."

"You said the bank would make the safest arrangements for us."

These words were repeatedly broadcast on television.

Many families sat at the dinner table, watching the man on the screen who was breaking down, and suddenly felt that they could hardly hold their chopsticks.

Because they had heard similar things before.

They also drank the same coffee in the bank's reception area.

They were also advised by bank employees in neat suits not to let fear ruin their opportunities.

At this point, more and more people finally understand that "The Collapsing Tower" is not an exaggeration.

It was even written with too much restraint.

Because reality is often more absurd than fiction.

Those chain bookstores that were once forced to remove "The Collapsing Tower" from their prime display stands under the pressure of capital are now being completely overwhelmed by angry and panicked readers.

Initially, only a few people stood in front of the counter questioning why there was a shortage of books, but as the market crashed and the news broke, the crowd queuing for books quickly turned into a collective outcry.

When readers slammed newspapers with news of bank runs onto the counter, demanding answers like "Did the bank give them instructions?" and "Is the bookstore covering up for these scammers?", the clerks' feeble excuses about "inventory adjustments" were instantly drowned out by the clamor.

Faced with an overwhelming public outcry that was impossible to stop, managers of several large chain stores made phone calls back to headquarters, sweating profusely.

In the past, headquarters could use a bureaucratic excuse like "waiting for unified arrangements" to stall for time.

But this time, faced with the panic that threatened to spiral out of control across society, no one dared to stop the power of words.

In the morning, the shelves were surrounded by anxious readers asking when the goods would be available. Less than an hour later, the empty shelves were filled again in a more aggressive manner.

The black-covered copy of "The Collapsed Tower" was placed back in the most prominent and central position in the store, even piled higher than before, and the lights were brighter.

An entire wall of books, a truly awe-inspiring sight, was filled with images of that massive black tower that was cracking open.

However, the atmosphere inside the bookstore was strangely oppressive.

There was none of the relaxed, bustling atmosphere of a bestselling book; everyone in the line looked as solemn as if they were waiting to receive a belated diagnosis report.

People mechanically pay for the books; some buy them to study them word by word, while others buy three at once to send immediately to their parents and siblings in other places.

Some people couldn't wait to pay and stood in the crowded aisles of the bookstore, flipping through the chapters on "joint guarantees" and "housing agencies" and studying them page by page, their faces growing paler with each reading.

"It's written here exactly like my loan agreement."

In the crowd, a man flipping through a book suddenly let out a trembling curse.

Everyone around him immediately turned to look at him.

The man flattened the pages of the book, his voice strained with despair. His finger pressed hard on a section analyzing second mortgages and joint guarantees: "That's what the salesperson said when I signed! He said the risk was extremely low, the bank would vouch for us, and that prime locations would never depreciate—"

The surrounding readers were completely absorbed in the book, and the only sound in the air was the rustling of the pages turning.

After a while, someone with a deathly pale face picked up the book, turned around, and left, heading straight for the nearest bank branch.

Some people even threw down banknotes on the spot, tightly tucked the black novel together with the loan documents in their briefcases, and rushed into the cold wind without looking back.

Outside the bookstore, the winter wind of Tokyo was biting cold and silent.

Inside the bookstore, this novel, which capital once tried to force into the basement, has returned to the center of the view of all Japanese people like a black monument.

This time, no one dared to dismiss it as unlucky or alarmist.

Because it has already become a reality!

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