Sumire looked at Sora Kamakawa with an expression that mixed disbelief and exhaustion.
"Shouldn't you be thinking first about how to pay off that ridiculous debt?" she said bluntly. "And you're still talking about making something original?"
She simply couldn't understand it.
Hiroshi Kamakawa, the former director, had never been willing to spend his entire life doing outsourced animation work, surviving on thin margins and production fees. That was why he had taken out bank loans, borrowed money from friends, and bet everything on original productions. The result had been disastrous. In two years, two animations had flopped completely. All the savings of a lifetime vanished, and in the end, a debt of ten million yen remained.
And now, his son was walking the exact same path.
"I…" Sora cleared his throat, buying himself a moment. "Just listen to me first before you decide anything."
Sumire shifted her gaze to him and stayed silent.
A few minutes later, Sora laid out his plan as clearly as he could. Within a week, two million yen would be deposited into his account. He intended to use that money to produce a short animation, with a length roughly equivalent to a little more than one TV anime episode.
"You can't quit right now," he said seriously.
Sora knew better than anyone that most of the staff had already left the company. The few who remained were barely holding things together. Even so, given the scope of this particular project, it wasn't entirely impossible to manage with a reduced team.
There was, however, one clear exception.
Among all the remaining employees, Sumire was the only one with real experience in animation direction. That alone made her indispensable.
Sora had learned a bit of everything from his father while growing up and understood the overall production process, but that was far from enough to take on the role of director and coordinate an entire project by himself. He needed someone to support him-someone who could make up for the gaps left by his lack of experience.
Handing the director's position over to Sumire and staying on only as an investor had never truly been an option. Not because he didn't want to, but because he couldn't.
The director of an animation was the one who drew the storyboards, defined the style of the work, decided on the art direction, backgrounds, music, color palette, pacing, and script. It was the person who coordinated all departments, reviewed and approved everything, and ultimately gave the work its identity.
"The Sacred Knight and the Princess"-just like every other story Sora carried from that other world-existed only in his memory. If he handed over nothing more than a script to another director, there was no guarantee the final result would have the same soul. It might turn out decent. It might turn into a disaster. There was no way to know.
The delicate, emotional style he envisioned, the way framing would be used, how backgrounds would amplify feelings, the visual impact-none of that would automatically appear just because someone else held the title of director.
He didn't even need to look far for examples. All it took was remembering how, in the past, some series had changed drastically just by switching studios and production teams. Styles swung from one extreme to another, gentle characters turned stiff and awkward, and the audience felt it immediately.
Direction mattered. It mattered immensely.
He wasn't willing to see a work he loved be ruined in this world due to a lack of creative control.
Sumire fell silent for several minutes. Her old compulsive habit began to surface. With her hands behind her back, her fingers fidgeted endlessly, while her eyes fixed on the glass cup on Sora's desk, clearly marked with fingerprints.
She couldn't stand it.
She took out a tissue, stepped forward, leaned down, and began scrubbing the glass hard, as if that mattered more than the conversation itself. The dry sound of paper rubbing against glass echoed in the room. When she finally finished and saw the cup clean and transparent, a sense of relief washed over her.
A faint fragrance spread through the air. Without realizing it, Sora's gaze drifted to her delicate face-fair skin, refined features. Yet her eyes were filled entirely with thought.
To be honest with herself, Sumire wasn't particularly interested in this new animation. Sora had been working at the company for a year since graduating high school, and much of what he knew he had learned under her guidance. He had potential, there was no doubt about that, but he was still far too young. Too inexperienced.
It was already a stretch to consider him a competent production assistant. Director? That felt completely unrealistic.
On the other hand, he was the company's president. If he insisted, no one could really stop him. Even if the idea sounded absurd, there wasn't much to criticize.
It also wasn't hard to understand why he wanted to keep her in the role of animation direction. He needed someone to compensate for his own shortcomings.
And deep down, she understood his state of mind. The projected two million yen in revenue from the previous work wouldn't even begin to cover the total debt. In that situation, betting everything on one last attempt almost seemed logical.
After all, when you owed ten million, two million more or less didn't make much difference. It was the kind of debt an ordinary person could never repay in a lifetime of work.
From a rational standpoint, she already had enough reasons to stay a few more months. Her salary would be paid, and it could be seen as a way to repay everything Hiroshi Kamakawa had done for her at the start of her career.
But the real problem lay elsewhere.
Sora wanted to take on the role of director himself… and he wanted her to be responsible for animation direction.
And that-that was dangerous.
In the industry, the greatest nightmare for a young professional was having their name tied to a disastrous production. Animation audiences were merciless. If something was bad, criticism would come without restraint. But if it was bad on an almost legendary level, the names of those involved would be remembered forever.
There were far too many examples of that. Infamous scenes that became jokes for years, images that still circulated as ultimate symbols of technical failure.
And worst of all, at the end of every episode, the credits were there. Name by name. Animators, supervisors, directors-everyone exposed. There was no escape.
All it took was one memorable mistake, and years later, someone would hear your name in a job interview and say with a crooked smile,
"Oh… you worked on that episode, didn't you?"
Sumire wasn't afraid of working a few months under Sora. What she feared was that this desperate gamble would produce an infamous scene-and that it would become the work she was remembered for.
She opened her mouth several times, urgency flashing in her eyes. She wanted to refuse. She needed to refuse.
Then Sora spoke, his voice low, almost pleading.
"Please, Sumire… I don't want the company my father fought for over twenty years to collapse in my hands. That studio was his dream. He wanted to see Dream Animation become a respected name in Japan. He's gone now… but that dream stayed with me."
He raised his head. His eyes were slightly red, but his gaze was clear and direct. There was the raw sincerity unique to an eighteen-year-old boy.
Sumire's heart wavered.
The words "I can't help you" simply wouldn't come out.
Hiroshi Kamakawa had been her mentor. For her, the word "gratitude" carried immense weight.
"I didn't make this decision on a whim," Sora continued quickly, sensing her hesitation. "I promise you this new work will touch people's hearts. It will truly move those who watch it."
She looked at him, unsure whether to laugh or sigh.
On one side, the emotional debt she owed her former teacher.
On the other, the very real possibility of becoming a joke in the industry.
The sound of paper against glass stopped. The room fell silent.
Sumire took a deep breath, suppressing the anxiety that always came with her compulsive need for order.
"At least… let me read the script first before I decide," she finally said, her voice softer than she intended.
She looked ahead.
Across the table, Sora's face lit up with joy he couldn't hide.
Sumire sighed inwardly.
If-just if-after reading the script, the work wasn't an absolute disaster, then maybe… just maybe, it could still be worth considering.