"Good morning, Director!"
As Miyako Miyano appeared at the meeting room door, everyone, including Tetsu Fuyukawa, stood and bowed in unison.
"Please, take your seats," Miyako said coldly, her face still frosty. Her gaze briefly lingered on Tetsu before shifting away. She strode to the head of the table, her figure accentuated by a form-fitting skirt, the click of her high heels sharp and piercing against the tiled floor.
The room was dead silent, the air heavy with tension.
She's not backing down, Tetsu thought, his eyes lowering as he sat with the others.
As expected, after the team leaders finished reporting on their respective game projects, the female secretary presented the first-day sales data for Dead or Alive.
At the head of the long table, Miyako, elegantly crossing her legs, leaned forward slightly. A cold glint flashed in her eyes as her lips parted. "Deputy Director Yamanaka, regarding the 4,000 units sold, what are your thoughts on how to proceed?"
Here it comes!
The room fell even quieter, all eyes—including Tetsu's—shifting to the bald man in a flashy gold suit sitting to the left.
To be honest, if this had happened earlier, Miyako taking on Yamanaka wouldn't have caused such a stir. A boss dressing down a subordinate was par for the course. But things were different now.
A few days ago, before Dead or Alive launched, Yamanaka had approached Miyako with a request.
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His ask was simple: increase the marketing budget.
Dead or Alive had performed poorly in beta testing, but it was a legacy IP. Throwing big money at marketing could turn things around, much like Cyberpunk 2077. Despite its disastrous launch, 2077 had leveraged massive marketing to sell 13 million copies in ten days, raking in $780 million globally—far surpassing The Witcher 3's debut. Pre-orders and hype from trailers alone recouped the $120 million development cost and over $120 million in marketing, even after platform cuts. A half-baked game had broken even and then some, all thanks to aggressive promotion.
Sure, 2077's studio, CD Projekt Red, had built trust with The Witcher 3, but Dead or Alive was also a storied fighting game IP. With enough marketing, its sales wouldn't look so dismal.
But everything comes at a cost.
Unlike 2077, which was salvaged with relentless patches, fighting games like Dead or Alive have a lower ceiling. Fixing issues wouldn't attract many new players, and Miyako had no intention of sticking with fighting games. She wasn't about to keep Firefly Studio's team on payroll just to churn out patches, nor would she divert Department 4's resources to prop up a failing project. This meant abandoning Yamanaka.
The two had completely burned their bridges.
Yamanaka knew his seat at the table wasn't due to Miyako's mercy—it was the board's intervention.
No need for pleasantries. His fierce, browless eyes locked onto Miyako as he stood and bowed deeply to the room. "I deeply apologize for Firefly's failure. As the team leader and a 31-year veteran of Department 4, I take full responsibility for this shameful performance that has embarrassed us in front of our industry peers. Please accept my sincerest apologies, colleagues. Sumimasen!"
With a loud declaration, Yamanaka stepped back, snapped to attention, and bowed a full 90 degrees, his head nearly touching the table.
The Saikeirei.
In Japan, bowing carries different meanings based on the angle. A 15-degree bow, or eshaku, is a casual greeting among colleagues. A 30-degree bow is more formal, often seen in business discussions. But a 90-degree bow, the saikeirei, is the most sincere gesture short of a dogeza—a humbling act, especially from someone as senior as Yamanaka.
In a society that values seniority, this was him casting aside all pride.
But…
"It's coming," Tetsu thought.
No one spoke. The room grew heavier, and Tetsu's gaze fixed on Yamanaka's bald head. A storm always follows dark clouds and thunder.
After his bow, Yamanaka straightened and glared at Miyako. "The failure of Dead or Alive is entirely on me, and I have no complaints. But, Director Miyano, have you decided to completely abandon Department 4's legacy and give up on fighting games?"
Boom!
The words hit like a thunderclap. The other team leaders and core staff grew visibly tense, their expressions darkening as they looked at Miyako.
The room's atmosphere plummeted to freezing.
What a sly old fox, Tetsu thought, his brow furrowing. Yamanaka had gone straight for the jugular. If he'd dodged responsibility or tried to pin the game's failure on Miyako, he'd have looked like a clown. But this was different.
Department 4 was built on fighting games. Talk of "legacy" might sound intangible, and few cared deeply about it. The real issue was interests.
Most understood Miyako was pivoting to new genres, gradually phasing out fighting games. That was fine—fighting games were a dying market. A hit to performance bonuses or job security was tolerable, especially for younger employees who could adapt.
But Yamanaka had just accused Miyako of scrapping fighting games entirely.
No more coasting. Employees would either have to pivot fast, get kicked out of Department 4, or be shipped off from Akihabara HQ altogether.
This was a direct attack on their livelihoods—an irreconcilable conflict.
"He's got people ready to back him up," Tetsu realized.
A single clap doesn't make a sound unless it's fast enough to break the air. If Miyako brushed this off, the issue might fizzle out.
But just as Tetsu thought this, a tall, lanky man with glasses sitting beside him spoke up. "Director Miyano, I heard you submitted a proposal to the board yesterday to downgrade Dead or Alive's marketing priority to C-level. Is that true?"