After the dinner plates were cleared, Kazuki, full of energy, used Takuya's thigh as a slide, climbing up and down without end.
Takuya Nakayama kept one hand on his son to prevent him from falling while his eyes darted to the scrolling timeline at the bottom of the TV screen.
The more he watched, the more absurd it seemed.
NHK was replaying the day's decision-making process, and the stark white timestamps on the screen seemed to brand "incompetence" onto the cabinet's foreheads.
The Governor of Hyogo Prefecture didn't finally remember to formally request the Self-Defense Forces until 7:30 PM.
And Prime Minister Murayama, of all people, didn't get around to convening the cabinet to discuss countermeasures until 6:13 PM.
A full twelve hours.
In those twelve hours, Kobe was burning, the ruins were wailing, and what were those big shots in Nagatachō doing?
They were poring over the constitution, going through the motions, confirming whether the Defense Agency's deployment was legally sound, and waiting for that damned seal to be stamped on the documents.
"This is Japan's bureaucracy," Takuya Nakayama sneered, pulling Kazuki away just as he was about to shove a Lego brick into his mouth.
Eri, who was loading dishes into the dishwasher, paused when she heard this.
Just as she was about to speak, the phone in the corner of the living room suddenly rang.
The shrill ring cut through the tense air like a saw.
Eri threw the rag in her hand onto the counter, not even bothering to dry her hands, and rushed over in two quick strides, snatching up the receiver.
"Hello? — Dad!"
Takuya muted the TV, not moving closer, just quietly watching his wife's back.
After a few seconds of dead silence, Eri's rigid, iron-like spine visibly softened.
"Okay—I understand—As long as everyone's safe—Yes, I'll tell Takuya."
When she hung up, Eri turned around, her eyes red-rimmed but her face wearing a smile.
"Ryota sent news. The neighborhood where Grandpa and Grandma live lost power, but the houses are structurally intact.
They have enough kerosene stored for half a month to keep warm, and plenty of cooked food. They told us not to worry."
The oppressive atmosphere in the house finally dissipated.
Eri had grown up with her grandmother.
Back then, her father-in-law, Nakagawa Jun, was a workaholic who was never home, chasing ratings. Her mother-in-law had to manage her husband and handle the social obligations of a TV executive's wife. In Eri's childhood memories, the air in Osaka, thick with the smell of takoyaki, felt far more familiar and comforting than Tokyo.
To be fair, those two elderly folks from Osaka were no pushovers.
When Takuya Nakayama first went to propose, his father-in-law, Nakagawa Jun, agreed almost without hesitation. He considered Sega's performance and Takuya's future potential, and he knew Takuya well enough to trust him.
The Osaka side, however, was much more critical of this "frivolous young man" who worked in video games, always finding fault with him. They felt he wasn't as reliable as a bank executive or a civil servant.
Their scrutiny back then was even sharper than the board of directors' questioning at Sega.
If Eri hadn't fiercely protected her husband like a mother hen, and if Takuya hadn't continued to be so good to her, those two old folks might still be giving him the cold shoulder.
"I'm glad you're okay," Takuya said, picking up his still-giggling son and patting his chubby little bottom. "Once the phone lines are back up, let this little guy sing a song for his great-grandparents—that 'Dango Daikazoku' song."
Eri chuckled and walked over to pinch Kazuki's cheek. "With his awful singing voice, don't scare the old folks."
Shortly after starting work the next day, Takuya received a report from his assistant.
Sega's relief convoy proved more efficient than expected, arriving in Kobe before midnight the previous night.
Without getting bogged down in official red tape, they directly coordinated with the local self-help mutual aid association, delivering truckloads of tents, umbrellas, blankets, and five thousand GamePockets.
Word spread that the children in the shelters, upon receiving the game consoles, finally brought a spark of life to the previously lifeless evacuation centers.
After hearing his assistant's report, Takuya Nakayama felt half his worry melt away.
But then something occurred to him, and he had his assistant relay his instructions to Sega employees in the disaster zone.
"Inform the team leader: after dropping off the supplies, they must follow the directions of local professionals. They can help with manual labor, but there's one absolute red line they must not cross—" Nakayama's knuckles rapped sharply on the desk. "No non-professionals are to enter the ruins to attempt rescue operations without the guidance of local experts. Anyone who acts heroically and causes more harm than good will be fired on the spot."
The assistant froze, clearly taken aback by the Managing Director's severity.
Nakayama couldn't explain the real reason. His mind was flashing back to a certain farce that would make the world laugh and cry in equal measure a decade later.
It was during the Great East Japan Earthquake in 2011 that South Korea sent an "elite rescue team."
Five people, leading two search-and-rescue dogs, solemnly vowed to save lives.
But no sooner had they entered the disaster zone than one of the dogs ran off. In the process of searching for the dog, all five members of the team also got separated.
In the end, the Japanese authorities had to divert precious police resources not only to help find the dog, but also to send translators to search the area for these five "rescue experts."
The rescue effort had turned into a rescue mission, and the help had become a hindrance. Sega couldn't afford such an international farce, and the lives of those in the disaster zone were too precious to gamble with.
In this critical, time-sensitive situation, enthusiasm was the cheapest commodity, while professionalism was the most valuable.
"Tell them," Takuya Nakayama said, standing up and walking to the window to gaze down at the still-bustling streets of Tokyo below. His voice deepened slightly. "We make games, not the Self-Defense Forces or the fire department. Our mission is to provide psychological comfort to the survivors and do what we can, not to add to the workload of the rescue teams in the rubble. Don't become a burden yourself—that's the greatest contribution you can make to the disaster zone."
The assistant gazed at the Managing Director's upright back. Though he didn't quite understand why the Director was so sensitive about "causing trouble," he was still awed by his commanding aura. He nodded vigorously, turned, and hurried off to relay the instructions.
Takuya Nakayama stared at the overcast sky outside and sighed. In the face of disaster, sometimes inaction required more courage than reckless action.
After dismissing the assistant, he leaned back in his chair and casually twisted open the bottle of oolong tea he'd bought from the vending machine downstairs that morning.
The office fell silent, save for the hum of the television's static and the occasional wail of sirens outside.
With his urgent tasks assigned, his role had shifted from decision-maker back to observer.
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