The next morning.
Futazeno Seiko woke up a little later than usual and rushed to school without even finishing her breakfast—Kitahashi Girls' High School awaited. It might sound hard to believe, but she'd spent the entire night dreaming about Tales of the Unusual. Though the details were hazy by morning, her desire to discuss the show with someone had only grown stronger.
For instance, had Miho truly been betrayed? Could there be another twist lurking beneath the surface, leading to a warm and uplifting conclusion instead? She'd watched it only once and hadn't recorded it, so rewatching wasn't an option. Certain details eluded her, and she was eager to exchange thoughts with friends, comparing notes to piece everything together.
With quick, kitten-like steps, her schoolbag hands, she navigated the hallways. Despite her haste, she greeted first-year juniors with practiced composure. At the entrance to the main building, she glanced at the shoe lockers and spotted her two best friends, Nishino Sagiri and Yamagami Aiko, already present. Without wasting time, she headed straight for the classroom.
This was the first day back after winter break—a combination of Christmas holidays and New Year festivities—and the atmosphere buzzed with energy. Some girls formed tight circles, giggling uncontrollably like a flock of overexcited hens. Others sang folk songs while wielding brooms, cheered on by classmates who jokingly urged them to lift their skirts higher. Members of the wind ensemble practiced lung capacity using balloons, their faces turning shades of purple as they strained—not exactly the picture of refined femininity. Any boy wandering into this chaos would likely question his understanding of reality.
But Seiko paid no mind. In an all-girls' school, appearances didn't matter when boys weren't around. Scanning the room, she quickly located her friends and hurried over without even setting down her bag. "Last night," she began breathlessly, "did you guys…"
"Hold on, Seiko!" Sagiri interrupted, raising a hand to silence her. Her expression turned serious. "Aiko-chan, there's only one zenzai mochi left."
Aiko slowly withdrew her hand, staring solemnly at the snack bag on the desk. "So… who gets to eat it?"
"We're friends. We shouldn't fight over food!"
"That's right. Best friends don't let something as trivial as dessert ruin their bond!"
"But tearing it apart will ruin the filling, won't it?"
"Yes, splitting a stuffed pastry always ruins the experience!"
"Let's settle this fairly then. Rock-paper-scissors—whoever wins eats it, and the loser has to accept defeat gracefully."
"Agreed. On three… rock, paper, scissors!"
As they chanted in unison, both raised their right hands, ready to play fair—but simultaneously lunged with their left hands toward the precious treat.
"Ha! You fool, it's mine now!" Sagiri declared triumphantly.
"You think I'll fall for that trick twice?" Aiko countered fiercely.
In a flash, their fingers tangled in a fierce struggle, gripping the slippery mochi as if their lives depended on it. Unable to endure such indignity, the pastry shot out of their grasp, flying through the air before slapping squarely onto Seiko's face.
Seiko stood frozen, her chest heaving with barely contained rage. Buttons threatened to pop off her blouse as the offending pastry slid down her face and landed on the floor. Sagiri glanced between the fallen mochi and Seiko's icy glare, panic setting in. "Quick, Aiko, move aside! Can't you see Futazeno-sama is tired from standing? Offer her your seat immediately!"
Aiko shot Sagiri a venomous look but obediently wiped down the chair and offered it humbly. "Please sit, Seiko-chan!"
Between these two ridiculous friends, Seiko couldn't muster the energy to stay angry. If given the chance to travel back in time eighteen months, she'd swear never to utter a word to either of them. Still, she allowed herself to be seated as Sagiri produced a handkerchief to clean her face, skillfully changing the subject. "So, Seiko, what were you trying to say earlier?"
After a moment of internal debate, Seiko sighed. There was no point staying mad. "Did you watch last night's late-night drama on TEB?"
"Late-night drama? Why bother with that?" Sagiri asked, gently wiping Seiko's face and smoothing her sleek bangs.
Seiko frowned. "Didn't we promise Hitomi-neesan we'd watch her program?"
Sagiri and Aiko exchanged blank stares. Time had dulled their memories, and guilt washed over them. Sagiri sighed deeply. "Oh no, we broke our promise."
Aiko piped up immediately. "What role did Hitomi-neesan play?"
Seiko opened her mouth to answer but found herself at a loss. She'd been so engrossed in the story that she'd completely forgotten about Hitomi-neesan. Had she even appeared?
"Why aren't you answering?" Sagiri nudged Seiko curiously. "You're not still mad, are you? You usually get over things in three minutes, even when I used to pinch your butt all the time."
"No, I'm not mad," Seiko replied, her emotions tangled. "I just… can't remember what role Hitomi-neesan played." She felt conflicted. Technically, she'd kept her promise to watch, but somehow, it felt hollow—as if she were no better than her forgetful friends.
"Was the show boring? Did you fall asleep halfway through?" Aiko chimed in, puzzled. Their friend was notorious for powering through even the worst shows, refusing to give up before the end of the first episode.
"No, it wasn't boring at all—it was fascinating!" Seiko perked up, suddenly animated as she recounted the first episode's plot. Ideas spilled forth as she speculated wildly about hidden twists and deeper meanings. Midway through her explanation, another classmate leaned in curiously. "That sounds interesting! What's the name of this drama?"
"Tales of the Unusual, a late-night series on TEB."
"Will there be reruns? When's the next episode?" Another girl chimed in, having overheard part of the conversation.
---
Meanwhile, in Studio 17 at TEB, the mood was far more subdued. Despite knowing the ratings were already set in stone—and nothing could change them now—the staff couldn't help but feel distracted. Even Fujii Arima refrained from snapping at anyone; worry clouded everyone's minds. Such was human nature.
Finally, Murakami Iori returned from the producers' meeting, her short heels clicking sharply against the floor as she strode purposefully into the studio. The moment she entered, every eye turned toward her—not just the crew, but even the actors paused mid-scene. Taking a deep breath, she bowed slightly and announced, "Our highest rating was 5.01%. Thank you all for your hard work!"
Chihara Rinto felt a wave of relief wash over him. This was better than his worst-case scenario, though it fell short of his loftiest expectations. Only 5.01%? This was supposed to be the golden age of television! Anything below 10% barely warranted acknowledgment among peers. No wonder late-night dramas were dubbed "ratings pits"—even promising scripts struggled to gain traction.
Yet silence reigned for only a heartbeat before cheers erupted throughout the studio. While not spectacular, the results were remarkable for a late-night slot. With numbers like these, cancellation was unlikely, ensuring job security for the foreseeable future.
Murakami straightened, clapping lightly with a modest smile. Amidst the chatter, she gestured to her companions. "Fujii-san, Chihara-sensei, please follow me."
Leading them into the director's lounge, her previously swollen face now glowing with pride, she handed them a detailed report. Struggling to maintain composure, she stated, "Average time-slot rating: 2.77%. Peak time-slot rating: 5.01%. Audience share: 36.8%."
Her restraint crumbled as excitement bubbled over. "We've succeeded!" This nearly matched her most optimistic projections for the season finale—and they were only just beginning! How was she able to contain her joy?
Chihara Rinto stared at her, momentarily speechless. Was this really considered success? By his standards, it was merely… decent. Still, Fujii exhaled in relief. "Thank goodness. All our efforts weren't in vain. Tonight, I can finally sleep soundly."
Murakami nodded fervently, her expression reminiscent of someone narrowly escaping disaster.
Ignoring their enthusiasm, Chihara picked up the report and began analyzing it meticulously. TEB's technical department provided comprehensive statistics, complete with charts and graphs. From the time-slot breakdown:
Initially, the ratings were abysmal, hovering at 0.77%. Clearly, previous late-night programming had alienated viewers entirely. During the first five minutes, fluctuations were erratic, bouncing around the 1% mark as bored channel surfers drifted in and out. However, by the end of the first segment, stability emerged, gradually climbing toward 2%. For the remainder of the broadcast, the curve sloped steadily upward, peaking at 5.01% near the third segment's climax before dipping slightly to close at 4.88%.
Objectively speaking, this constituted a minor victory. Viewers who lingered despite aimless surfing were prime candidates for becoming loyal followers, providing a stable foundation for future growth. But achieving breakout success would require building word-of-mouth momentum—a challenge without the aid of modern internet tools.
Turning his attention to the audience share pie chart, Chihara noted the distinction between ratings and shares. Ratings measured how many people within the broadcast area tuned in—if 1 person out of 100 watched, that equaled 1%. Early methods relied on manual reporting via confidential contracts with selected households; now, advanced technology tracked signals directly. Share, on the other hand, reflected the percentage of active TV viewers watching a specific program. For example, if 10 out of 100 people watched TV and all chose your show, the rating would be 10%, but the share would reach 100%.
In Japan, share data served primarily for inter-network comparisons, reflecting market dominance during specific timeslots. Despite modest ratings, Tales of the Unusual demonstrated impressive share figures, signaling that few competitors posed a threat in the late-night arena. Smartphones' absence worked in their favor—otherwise, audiences might have opted for bedtime scrolling rather than flipping channels idly.
Chihara pored over the charts, adjusting his writing strategy accordingly. Comparing Tales of the Unusual to other programs highlighted its modest performance. Many flagship shows boasted average ratings surpassing his own peak numbers.
Flipping through the pages, he stumbled upon Ishii Jiro's latest project, Happiness in the Fields. Driven by curiosity—and perhaps a touch of schadenfreude—he examined its stats closely. To his dismay, the arrogant nepotism baby's show boasted a peak rating of 20.2% and an average of 18.77%. Impressive numbers, indeed.
Was this a testament to quality, or simply the power of prime-time slots? Lacking a preexisting audience base remained a significant hurdle.