Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

Chapter 199 The Free Writers' Alliance Takes Action

At one o'clock in the morning, rainwater seeped in little by little through the dilapidated window frames of the cheap business hotel.

The room was filled with the smell of musty carpet and the sour odor of cheap tobacco.

Twenty-seven-year-old Yusuke Morita sat blankly on the edge of the bed, like a soulless shell.

On the folding table beside him, three pages of a suicide note were neatly laid out.

While writing, he revised it repeatedly, and between the lines was his apology to his parents and his final compromise with this upside-down world.

Next to the suicide note was a bottle of the cheapest sake he had bought at a convenience store.

He originally intended to use it to suppress the physiological fear he would feel when he jumped, but because his hands were shaking so badly, he tried several times and couldn't even tear open the plastic seal on the bottle opening.

The massive 50 million yen claim, the newspaper's ruthless disassociation, the security door splashed with red paint late at night—these things were like iron walls slowly closing in, completely crushing his backbone.

Yusuke Morita took a deep breath, stood up blankly, and prepared to walk towards the door leading to the rooftop—

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

Just then, a loud banging sound came from outside the door.

In the dead of night, the sound was like a heavy hammer hitting bones.

Upon hearing this, Yusuke Morita shuddered violently and instinctively staggered back two steps, his back pressed firmly against the cold wall.

The debt collectors who splashed red paint on the door still came.

This was the only thought that flashed through Yusuke Morita's mind.

Yusuke Morita thought that by hiding in this remote and dilapidated hotel, he could at least have a way to die undisturbed, but it was clear that the other party did not even intend to give him that much time.

The banging on the door grew louder and louder, and the thin wooden door groaned under the violent impact.

Yusuke Morita's breathing became rapid. He looked desperately at the unopened bottle of liquor on the table. He wanted to grab it and use it as a weapon, but his hands were too weak to lift.

"Morita! Is that Morita Yusuke inside?"

The person outside seemed to sense the dangerous silence inside and suddenly shouted, "Don't do anything foolish! Open the door! We're from the Shincho-sha! We've been sent by the Tokyo Shincho-sha!"

With a loud bang, the already flimsy door lock was smashed open.

The next second, two men, soaking wet and covered in sweat, rushed in.

They weren't wearing the black suits that debt collectors are known for, nor were they carrying baseball bats.

The leader's chest heaved violently, his gaze sweeping over the suicide note on the table, and his eye twitched suddenly.

Without even catching his breath, he rushed to the wall, grabbed Morita's trembling shoulders tightly, and cried out, "Morita—don't be afraid! Kitahara Iwao-sensei saw your SOS! The Alliance has taken over completely, you're safe!"

"Teacher Kitahara — Alliance —"

These words entered his ears, but Morita Yusuke's brain did not immediately react.

He stood there, stunned, his gaze fixed on the raindrops dripping from the hem of the other person's clothes, watching the water droplets leave a small, dark stain on the worn carpet.

It took a full half minute for Yusuke Morita to belatedly understand the meaning of those words.

In that instant, Yusuke Morita felt his legs suddenly lose all strength, and he slumped heavily onto the edge of the bed behind him.

Then he lowered his head and covered his face tightly with his hands.

He buried his head deep in his knees and bit his hand hard, trying to suppress his voice.

But her back still trembled violently uncontrollably, and warm tears silently streamed down her fingers, quickly soaking a large area of ​​the stiffened bed sheet.

Yusuke Morita couldn't even utter a complete sentence; he could only barely confirm, amidst waves of near-exhaustion and trembling, the fact that he could still live.

The rain outside the window hadn't stopped, but it was already light in Tokyo.

At eight o'clock in the morning, when the executives of the local bank in the Northland walked into the office with hot coffee, they thought it was just an ordinary Thursday.

Little did they know, a giant net, woven overnight by some of Tokyo's most skilled calligraphers, was about to crash down upon them.

The "Free Writers Alliance" didn't hold any grand press conferences; instead, they used their most effective method of retaliation: words.

The first thing to break the morning's tranquility was the simultaneous operation of dozens of fax machines at the Shinchosha headquarters.

Accompanied by the jarring sound of a mechanical dialer, a brief statement from Kitahara Iwa was sent in batches to the desks of hundreds of mainstream media outlets across Japan.

On the white-background, black-printed fax paper, two direct questions were printed: "Mr. Yusuke Morita is simply fulfilling his duty as a journalist. If Hokuriku Housing Finance and its investors believe the truth will damage their reputation, please first disclose your internal accounts to the entire nation."

This fax was like a starting gun fired at the entire press.

The bombshell aimed at the general public was actually planted last night when the printing presses were roaring.

Almost at the same time that the editors of various newspapers were staring in astonishment at the fax paper, as the commuter trams of the morning rush hour slowly started moving, countless office workers who habitually opened the morning paper saw Murakami Ryu's column published on the front page supplement.

The title is blunt and unadorned—"The Yakuza Knocking on Doors and the Dogs Keeped by Banks."

This literary maverick, known for his ruthless writing style, directly tore off the facade of respectability in the financial world in his article: "When dealing with billions of bad debts, you act like obsequious and incompetent bureaucrats."

"When you're facing a 27-year-old local reporter, you suddenly remember you have a Ministry of Justice."

"If your accounts are truly clean, then leave the doors wide open, instead of acting like rats in the gutter, splashing red paint on young people's doors in the middle of the night."

This statement, like a slap in the face, instantly ignited the long-suppressed anger within the Japanese media.

The special vehicles from various newspapers set off almost simultaneously, heading straight for the Northland.

But this is only the domestic situation.

What truly terrified the local banks were the several overseas phone calls that Kenzaburo Oe made late at night.

At 10 a.m., several external lines in the advertising department of the local bank's headquarters rang one after another, interrupting the previously dull sound of keyboard typing.

The head of the Public Relations Department, microphone in hand, picked up a cup of warm black coffee from the table and spoke with the practiced, familiar tone he repeated dozens of times a day: "Hello, this is the Public Relations Department."

Good morning. This is the Tokyo bureau of The Wall Street Journal.

The person on the other end of the phone spoke in standard business politeness in Japanese: "We are currently writing an investigative report on the handling of non-performing local government debt in Japan. We have some materials and would like your bank to provide an official response."

Upon hearing the name of this foreign media outlet, which was completely outside the local circle of acquaintances, the minister's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. He then took a sip of coffee and instinctively adopted a bureaucratic tone, saying, "I'm sorry, regarding unverified market rumors, in principle—"

"We have a copy of the fund flow record bearing the seal of your bank's Beilu branch."

However, the reporter directly interrupted his evasive maneuvering: "Two issues need to be verified. First, does your bank, through Beilu Residential Finance, secretly transfer funds to peripheral debt collection agencies with yakuza ties? Does this constitute your bank's tacitly accepted method of handling bad debts?"

As he finished speaking, the minister's coffee choked in his throat. He then covered the microphone tightly, coughing twice with his face flushed red.

Then, without even bothering to wipe away the brown water stains splattered on his silk tie, he sat bolt upright, his voice strained, and said, "Please watch your words. This is utter nonsense, our bank has absolutely no involvement—"

"If it's nonsense..."

On the other end of the phone, the reporter naturally picked up where he left off, speaking at the same unhurried pace: "So, the second question we need to verify is—"

"Regarding your bank's recent defamation claim against a journalist named Yusuke Morita, amounting to 50 million yen."

"We would like to confirm whether using depositors' funds to launch massive lawsuits against individuals is a standard public relations tactic employed by your bank to cover up deep-seated bad debts?"

Upon hearing the specific terms "Yusuke Morita" and "fifty million," the minister's previously raised rebuttal abruptly ceased as if his throat had been gripped.

Then his Adam's apple bobbed laboriously, and he opened his mouth, but no sound came out at all.

The tabloid reporters who can usually get away with things by slipping envelopes to local nightclubs have absolutely no ability to leak this level of legal secrets directly to foreign media outlets across the ocean.

This shows that the other party was not bluffing or trying to trick them at all; they actually had a trump card that would allow the Ministry of Finance to conduct a forced investigation of the bank.

Sensing the deathly silence on the other end of the line, the reporter didn't urge them, but continued, "Our deadline is 8 PM Tokyo time tonight."

"If we do not receive a reasonable written explanation from your bank, we will state the facts on tomorrow's English front page: Your bank refuses to respond to questions about the flow of funds to organized crime."

"Sorry to bother you."

With a crisp click, the wire snapped shut, cutting off all room for maneuver.

The minister remained stiffly in the position of holding the microphone, staring blankly at his fingers, which were white from excessive force, his palms already damp with a layer of cold sweat.

The next second, without bothering to put the receiver back on the landline, leaving it to slam on the table and emit a piercing dial tone, he rushed out of the office, his face pale, and headed straight for the floor where the executive director was located.

Throughout the morning, the panic triggered by a few overseas phone calls spread like a virus rapidly through the senior offices of the local bank.

What truly pushed this panic to despair was another precise strike at exactly noon.

As the automatic glass doors slid open to both sides, three men carrying dark briefcases stepped into the headquarters lobby of Hokuriku Residential Finance on time.

They lack the earthy sophistication of local lawyers.

The impeccably tailored dark suit, the perfectly wrinkle-free shirt collar, and the cold, hard aura that made the person in charge of the housing agency who came out to greet him instinctively feel a sense of unease.

In the VIP reception room, a female employee served steaming hot premium tea.

The head of the residential property company pulled out a business card with a gold-embossed title, handed it over with both hands, and put on a smooth smile, saying, "The three of you have come all the way from Tokyo, you must be tired. The rainy season in Hokuriku is very humid, why don't you have some hot tea first? As for the little misunderstanding about that young man Morita, we can actually sit down and talk about it slowly."

However, he stopped abruptly before he could finish speaking, and his hands, which were handing out the business card, froze awkwardly in mid-air.

Because none of the three people opposite reached out to take the business card.

The lead lawyer simply placed his briefcase on his lap, and with a crisp "click" of the metal clasp, a meticulously bound legal document was pushed directly onto the coffee table in front of the person in charge.

"Let's skip the small talk and probing; we're not here to make friends."

The lawyer, speaking with a standard Tokyo accent, said, "We represent Mr. Yusuke Morita."

Upon hearing this, the person in charge, forcing a smile, tried to salvage some of the momentum: "Sir, this attitude from the outset seems rather unprofessional, doesn't it? Our legal department only issued a standard claim letter—"

"Regarding your claim for 50 million in defamation."

The lawyer interrupted him directly, saying, "We demand that you provide a detailed financial statement of the defamation, accurate to the single digit, by 5 PM today."

"And they used financial documents to explain to us how this loss of fifty million was directly caused by a report in a local tabloid?"

The person in charge subconsciously swallowed, forcing himself to remain calm, and said, "This—this is just our legal department's preliminary punitive estimate. We can withdraw the specific amount if Mr. Morita is willing to publish an apology—"

"You don't seem to have understood me."

However, the lawyer didn't give him a chance to bargain, and said directly, "We're not here to ask you to drop the case."

""

"Please be informed that we have formally applied to the court for evidence preservation. From this moment on, all underlying fund transfer accounts between your company and all external debt collection agencies will be subject to a complete judicial freeze."

"Are you kidding me?!"

Upon hearing this, the person in charge suddenly jumped up from the sofa and said, "Freeze the account? Just for a poor reporter who wrote a smear article?!"

Do you know how large a Ponzi scheme involving banks is behind this?!

"Of course we know."

Seeing the other person's deathly pale face, the lawyer replied directly, "So, you have less than five hours before your account is frozen. Go call someone who can make the decision."

Upon hearing this, the person in charge's barely suppressed anger instantly dissipated. He slumped back into the sofa, his Adam's apple bobbing with difficulty, and a fine layer of cold sweat seeped from his forehead.

He then tried to stall by citing the structure of a large corporation: "This is against the rules—our legal department has established procedures, and even if we want to withdraw the case, it will take at least a few days for internal evaluation—"

However, the lawyer simply ignored this kind of bureaucratic evasion, stood up, buttoned his suit jacket with one hand, and calmly glanced at his watch.

"You only have this afternoon."

, 7

"If we do not see a formal withdrawal notice by 5 p.m., we will submit an independent audit application to the Tokyo District Public Prosecutors Office Special Investigation Department first thing tomorrow morning, and file a countersuit against your organization for allegedly concealing bad assets and illegally transferring benefits to yakuza organizations."

"Excuse me."