Ajal.
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Chapter 5 - Joining the Company
🕑 Added 2025-09-13 03:35:49 +0000 UTCTakuya Nakayama pressed the phone receiver tightly to his ear. On the other end, Hayao Nakayama’s steady breathing was like a metronome.
He cleared his throat, adjusted his posture, and ensured his voice was calm.
“Father, I’m ready.”
A brief pause, filled only with the faint hum of static.
“Hm?” Hayao Nakayama’s voice came through, betraying no emotion, carrying its usual authority.
“The ‘gift’ you mentioned before—I’ve prepared it,” Takuya continued. “On Monday, I’ll report to the company on time. For the presentation of the gift, I’d like to invite the team leaders and deputies from the development department, as well as the heads of marketing, legal, and international business to witness it.”
A few seconds of silence followed.
“Good.” A single, crisp word, like the confirmation of an order.
“Monday, 9 a.m., at headquarters.” No unnecessary questions, no hint of personal concern—just the tone of a superior addressing a subordinate.
“Yes, Father.”
Takuya gently hung up, the receiver’s click echoing sharply in the quiet room. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling deeply, his tense shoulders relaxing. It was done.
Monday morning, sunlight streamed through the slats of the blinds, casting striped patterns of light and shadow on the tatami.
Takuya Nakayama donned a navy-blue suit, its fabric crisp and well-tailored. The white shirt’s collar and cuffs were immaculate, the tie knotted with precision. He studied himself in the mirror—a young man with clear eyes and a subtle, confident curve to his lips, exuding a quiet intensity. This was the “Takuya Nakayama” he’d crafted for Sega.
He carefully checked his briefcase, ensuring the floppy disk and neatly printed proposal were inside. Nearby, the cardboard box containing the Soviet relic sat quietly, like a dormant witness. He picked up the briefcase and hefted the box under one arm, its weight causing a slight strain. Pushing open the apartment door, he stepped toward his new battlefield.
Sega’s headquarters loomed in Shinagawa-ku, its massive glass facade reflecting the morning sun with the cold efficiency of a high-powered institution. At the reception desk, the staff confirmed his identity and appointment, their professional tone unable to mask a flicker of curiosity in their eyes.
“The president is waiting for you.”
The elevator ascended silently, floor numbers ticking up methodically. As the doors opened, Takuya Nakayama saw Hayao Nakayama waiting at the entrance.
As always, his father wore an impeccable suit, his expression stern, his eyes sharp as an eagle’s, piercing through to the core.
“Follow me,” he said tersely, without pleasantries, and turned to walk.
Takuya followed, his dress shoes echoing faintly on the polished floor. Employees passing in the corridor slowed their steps, their eyes lingering on the unfamiliar young man trailed by the president. They’d stop, bow, and greet, “Good morning, President,” but their glances were complex—surprise, curiosity, speculation. Some exchanged hushed words with colleagues.
“Is that the president’s son?”
“So young…”
“Which department?”
The whispers rippled and faded against an invisible barrier. Takuya Nakayama kept his spine straight, his gaze forward, unfazed by the curious or scrutinizing looks. They were like a breeze brushing past, unable to shake him.
They stopped before a frosted glass door labeled “Third Development Department.” Hayao Nakayama pushed it open without knocking.
Inside was a typical Japanese open-plan office: beige cubicles neatly aligned, computer screens flickering with color, the clatter of keyboards mingling with low murmurs. The door’s opening rippled through the room like a stone dropped in a pond. Work paused as nearby employees looked up, their initial irritation at the interruption shifting to surprise at the president’s presence.
Hayao Nakayama’s voice, though not loud, carried a penetrating force, silencing the room’s ambient noise and halting all activity.
“This is Takuya Nakayama.” His gaze swept the room, and employees instinctively sat straighter. He spoke as if stating an unassailable fact: “Starting today, he will serve as deputy team leader of the Third Development Department.”
The air seemed to vanish, then freeze. Dozens of eyes locked onto Takuya, their scrutiny sharper and more direct than the corridor’s glances—probing, skeptical, with a hint of veiled mockery. A bespectacled man’s pen clattered onto his desk. In a corner, someone lowered their head, exchanging a knowing look with a colleague.
The president’s son.
Nepotism.
Parachuted in.
These unspoken labels rained down like icy hail.
Hayao Nakayama finished his introduction without further comment, merely tilting his chin slightly toward Takuya, signaling his turn.
Takuya stepped forward, standing in the brightest patch of light by the door, facing the room. He bowed slightly, his smile perfectly balanced—neither obsequious nor aloof.
“Hello, everyone. I’m Takuya Nakayama.” His voice was clear and steady, carrying to every corner of the quiet office. He met their gazes unflinchingly, his eyes sweeping slowly across the crowd. “It’s my first day. I look forward to working with you.”
He paused, gauging their reactions, then deepened his smile with a touch of self-deprecation.
“I know my sudden appearance here, and in this role, might be… well, a bit surprising.” He addressed the elephant in the room frankly, his tone light, as if discussing something trivial. “After all, my last name is Nakayama. That’s not something I can change.”
A few stifled coughs broke the silence, and someone’s lips twitched, suppressing a smile. The tense atmosphere loosened slightly, like a taut string relaxing.
“But,” Takuya’s tone shifted, his smile fading as his eyes grew focused and sharp, “I hope, in the days to come, you—my seniors and colleagues—will come to know and judge me through my work, through the tangible results I bring to the Third Development Department and to Sega.”
His gaze swept across their faces, catching subtle shifts: some remained impassive, others furrowed their brows in thought, and a few showed clear skepticism.
“I’m not here to inherit anything, to coast, or to take a vacation.” His voice remained steady, infused with undeniable conviction. “I’m here to work with all of you toward a shared goal—” He paused, emphasizing his next words, “to create great games that will utterly defeat Nintendo!”
