The phone on the desk suddenly rang.
"Hello?"
"Dad, it's me."
The taut lines on Nakagawa Jun's face softened slightly as he raised a hand to signal his secretary to pause the report.
"Is this about Osaka?"
"Takuya said Ryota might have gone to the front lines—"
"I woke that kid up early this morning by phone," Nakagawa Jun interrupted, his voice carrying the confident tone of a man in power. "The film crew left at 6:30 and must be halfway there by now. I gave him strict orders: regardless of whether they get exclusive footage, they must first check on your grandparents' safety."
He paused, his voice deepening. "Those are my parents-in-law. I'm more worried than you are. The crew has a satellite phone. I'll call you back the moment I hear anything."
"Thank you, Dad."
"Don't be silly. It's not that bad. Your grandparents' house was renovated just a few years ago. I have to get back to work now." Nakagawa Jun snorted and hung up.
Lunchtime.
Takuya Nakayama sat at his desk, the eel rice bowl in front of him completely empty.
On NHK's screens, the death toll ticked up like a relentless counter, each update signifying the shattering of dozens of families.
In stark contrast, the civilian self-rescue efforts that erupted were astonishing.
The camera swept across the streets of Kobe, where convenience store owners, who normally haggled fiercely over a few yen, now hauled their shelves onto the rubble-strewn roads.
Daiei Supermarket, 7-Eleven, Lawson—these commercial tentacles transformed into makeshift supply stations.
There was no looting, no price gouging. Onigiri and bottled water were neatly stacked, the price tags bearing only two words: "Free."
An even more surreal scene unfolded in Nagata Ward, Kobe.
A group of men, their chests adorned with clan emblems, rode motorcycles through narrow alleyways impassable to fire trucks.
In their hands, they carried not knives, but blankets and milk powder.
This was the headquarters of the Yamaguchi-gumi. These yakuza, normally viewed as a cancer by the Metropolitan Police Department, had somehow taken charge of disaster relief and resource distribution even before the Self-Defense Forces arrived.
"How ironic," Takuya Nakayama muttered, poking at the cold, hard rice in his bowl with his chopsticks, a mocking smile twisting his lips.
The yakuza were rescuing people, and merchants were distributing food, while the massive state apparatus, funded by taxpayers, seemed to have vanished from the map.
A full half-day passed, yet not a single Self-Defense Forces truck was seen on television.
The media's tone began to shift, moving from initial shock to fury. Their questions grew increasingly sharp: "Where is the Prime Minister? Where are the rescue teams?"
As a transmigrator, Takuya Nakayama understood the absurd logic behind this.
In the eyes of those bureaucrats in Kasumigaseki, procedural justice mattered far more than human lives.
Without an official request from the governor of Hyogo Prefecture, the Defense Agency couldn't deploy the Self-Defense Forces. Without the Prime Minister declaring a state of emergency, rescue supplies would remain stuck in the approval process.
At that very moment, in the Nagatachō Prime Minister's residence, a group of old men were likely gathered around a round table, locked in a heated debate over "who should be the first to stamp this document."
This was Japan.
A nation where "not inconveniencing others" was ingrained in its very bones, yet "never taking responsibility" was elevated to a sacred principle.
As night fell, Takuya Nakayama returned home.
The air in the living room did not warm with the glow of the amber pendant lamp. Instead, it grew increasingly tense with the rising volume of the television.
On NHK's special news broadcast, even the usually composed anchors were visibly flustered as they reported a blood-pressure-raising piece of news: the first official disaster report received by the Prime Minister's Office, as of the cabinet meeting held at 10 AM, still misidentified the epicenter as Kyoto.
"Kyoto?" Takuya Nakayama slammed his teacup onto the table with a sharp clatter. "That's eighty kilometers from Kobe! What map are these bureaucrats using?"
The camera cut to an on-site interview.
A middle-aged man, his face caked with dust, roared at the camera, spittle nearly flying onto the reporter's disaster helmet. "Where are the Self-Defense Forces? The police? We've been digging through the rubble for six hours straight and haven't seen a single uniformed officer! Tell those old men in Nagatachō—if they can't find their way here, I'll personally go pick them up!"
This wasn't an isolated incident.
As communication lines were gradually restored, public anger surged with more force than the aftershocks.
Eri emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray, the steam rising from the pot of kanto-ni failing to mask the pallor of her face.
She set the bowls and chopsticks in place, but her eyes were magnetically drawn to the scrolling casualty list at the bottom of the screen. The spoon in her hand, poised to serve rice, hung in mid-air, hesitating to fall.
"Don't look," Takuya Nakayama said, taking the spoon from her hand and filling a bowl with rice, placing it before her. His voice softened. "No news is good news. Besides, Ryota's already gone with the crew."
He pointed to the wall clock; the hour hand had just passed seven.
"That kid's driving a TV Tokyo interview van. It's a special vehicle—high chassis, good off-road performance. And Osaka is different from Kobe. Kobe's elevated highways and port are completely destroyed, turning it into an isolated island. But Osaka is to the east, and the road network connecting it to Kyoto and Nara is basically intact." Takuya tapped the table with his chopsticks, his logic clear and precise. "He must be in Osaka City by now. If something serious had happened to your grandparents, his reporter's instinct would have kicked in. He'd have used the satellite phone to report back to the station already."
Eri took a deep breath, as if trying to exhale the tightness in her chest, and forced a smile. "You're right. Ryota's always been sharp. He's the one who usually causes trouble, not the one who gets into it."
"Eat first. We still have one little one to wake up."
Takuya stood up and walked into the bedroom.
Four-year-old Nakayama Kazuki lay sprawled on the tatami mat, his sleep posture utterly unrestrained, a string of glistening drool dangling from his lips. He was completely oblivious to the world outside being turned upside down.
"Time to wake up, Kazuki," Takuya Nakayama said, pinching his son's chubby cheeks.
The little one grumbled in protest, rolling over to present his father with his backside, mumbling incoherently: "No— Monsters— Ultraman will fight—"
"There's no Ultraman, only your mom's oden." Takuya scooped up the hefty little meatball and hoisted him onto his shoulders, heading for the living room. "If you don't get up soon, Dad will eat all the daikon."
Watching her husband emerge carrying their groggy son, Eri's tightly drawn lips finally relaxed slightly.
On this turbulent night, the warmth and domesticity filling the house might be the only things that brought a sense of stability.
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