CHAPTER 2 - PROLOGUE (2)
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What's a legacy, really? An impossible collection of deeds, or an endless parade of ego? In my case, surely both.
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Kurosaki Kageyama contemplated the amber liquid in the crystal glass he cradled. The whiskey was of an exceptional vintage, imported from a distant distillery, the liquor carried with it the whispered secrets of its creators, a symphony of flavours and aromas that danced upon his tongue.
The bottle from which it was drawn glistened with a sublime layer of frost, an ethereal veil that adorned its curves and contours like a delicate, icy lace. It was a work of art in itself, the glass catching the kaleidoscope of colours that spilled through the window from the sprawling Tokyo cityscape below. The vibrant hues of neon and the warm, golden glow of streetlights traced an eternal metropolis; even at this late hour, it pulsed with an undeniable energy.
As Kageyama swirled the whiskey within its vessel, the liquid came alive, swirling in mesmerising patterns, casting glimmers of light against the shadows that danced upon the walls—the respite was a well deserved reward for his troubles.
'Challenging authority so brazenly, planting seeds of uncertainty among my team, even endeavouring to undermine my leadership… Intriguing, indeed. Had he simply maintained a low profile, I would have relocated him to an unimportant department and toiled in obscurity until the day he retired.'
Kurosaki's gaze drifted toward the window, where the city's vibrant nightscape unfolded like a meticulously composed painting. He observed the streets teeming with throngs of people who surged through them, his eyes wandering to the towers of concrete and glass that pierced the sky. Amidst the urban chaos, he found unexpected serenity—a soothing ambiance that enveloped him in conflicting tranquillity.
Kurosaki had encountered many individuals like Hiiroga Uzushi before, and he was certain he would cross paths with more in the future. Men of Uzushi's ilk were as abundant as they were unyielding—their minds rigid and resistant to change. Yet, Kurosaki recognised that they possessed their own unique value. It made sense that they clung to the past with such fervour, preserving the very principles that had propelled them to their current standing while staunchly refusing to evolve. They were the guardians of tradition; obstinate and unwavering.
However, their reluctance to adapt created ample opportunity for others to surpass them—an advantage Kurosaki had no qualms exploiting. In a perverse way, he harboured a deep-seated gratitude for the stubborn and old.
Bringing the crystal glass to his lips, Kurosaki commended himself. The idea to hire a prostitute to masquerade as Uzushi's mistress was one that came to him suddenly.
'And to think that she was the one to capture those incriminating photographs… I can't help but wonder what expression would cross Uzushi-san's face if he were to learn the truth behind it all.'
Initially, Uzushi had proven to be a challenging target, as the old man had maintained an impressively spotless career, and the man knew it himself. It was a welcome change for Kurosaki; to devise an intricate, roundabout strategy, one that demanded meticulous care and involved cultivating a scandal over several months. Uzushi was an exceptional case, and the success of his plan brought Kurosaki a satisfaction greater than any other.
His was a country where honour was held above all else, and individuals would go to great lengths to conceal the disgrace of their transgressions. The outcome had been a foregone conclusion the moment those incriminating photographs landed in Kurosaki's possession.
The success of the scheme was undeniable. As Kurosaki observed the confrontation, he could almost sense the beads of sweat forming on the old man's brow, each droplet another nail in his coffin. It was as if he had watched someone perched precariously on a cliff's edge, a silent observer to their dawning realisation that their hold had slipped.
Hiiroga Uzushi's resignation letter would be reviewed by the board tomorrow morning, who would all vote in favour. And with Uzushi's honour preserved, his wife and daughter would remain blissfully ignorant of his extramarital indiscretions. Perhaps he could find another position in a competing firm and rebuild his career from there. He had the experience, after all.
Kurosaki stifled a laugh.
Once again, the traditions of old ensnared their adherents. To Uzushi, it would be inconceivable to renege on their agreement. After all, he had complied with the demands, and fleeting notions like 'honour' and 'integrity' would magically bind Kurosaki's hands.
The incriminating photos had already been dispatched to Uzushi's wife, accompanied by a copy of that humiliating resignation letter. She would soon learn the 'truth.' And with the prostitute no longer on his payroll, she would never contact the hapless man again.
In only a few days, Uzushi would find himself bereft of a home, a livelihood, and perhaps most significantly, a family.
'What worse a tragedy than this, for an ageing man approaching his twilight years?'
Kurosaki's lips curled into a grin as he relished the ruin of his old superior like the vintage clasped in his hands. In silence, he raised his glass to the night sky.
Kurosaki Kageyama knew it all too well. The world was his for the taking.
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The acrid smell of stale smoke and alcohol permeated the drawn curtains. A flickering light bulb dangled precariously from the ceiling, casting the room in a sickly yellow glow.
Mountains of used instant noodle cups, cans, and beer bottles piled high throughout the space. A sea of empty cigarette packets and discarded butts peppered the grime-streaked carpet. Apart from a single chair and an ancient CRT television set, the room was devoid of any semblance of furniture.
Huddled in the lone chair was a hunched figure. Deep wrinkles carved into his face, and the flesh sagged, hanging loosely from his weary bones. He wore a pair of tattered glasses, which he constantly fiddled with, struggling to keep them from slipping off his nose. He stared listlessly at the screen, sunken eyes and hollow pupils conveying a profound emptiness. A faded scar marred his right cheek—a haunting reminder of a drunken brawl years earlier.
Hiiroga Uzushi, an unrecognisable and shattered man. Once a respected figure from the boardroom to the boardwalk, now reduced to a pitiful existence of isolation and disgrace.
The television crackled, and the lively voice of a presenter echoed throughout the room. "In an earnings call last week, the Yamato Group announced that their controversial acquisition of the Kensaku Corporation would proceed despite concerns of antitrust violations. To discuss the topic with us, I am pleased to welcome a very special guest to our show. We are delighted you have joined us today, Kageyama-sama."
The camera panned from the presenter to a man in his late twenties sporting neatly combed black hair and piercing black eyes. His face was poised and composed, adorned in a grey suit, a crisp white shirt, and a black tie—the uniform of corporate Japan.
Kurosaki's eyes swept the studio before settling on the camera. He flashed a disarming smile through the pixels on the screen, but Uzushi saw the truth behind the façade. Those eyes were taunting him.
"Kageyama-sama, since your appointment as CEO four years ago, the Yamato Group has experienced astonishing growth, with the company now ten times as valuable as it was back then. Your name has become synonymous with the success of the Yamato Group, but this has led many analysts to point to you regarding the Kensaku acquisition. Do you have any comment on these claims?"
The man addressed the camera with a confident smile. Kurosaki's voice was silky smooth, his tone as polished as a diamond.
"Please, the Yamato Group's success is due to the hard work of our employees, the loyalty of our customers, and the faith of our investors. Accusations are always much easier to direct towards an individual than a company. At the end of the day, the Yamato Group is a human enterprise at its core. It belongs not to me, but to the employees who have worked tirelessly to build it; the only thing I can do is take pride in their accomplishments."
Uzushi's hands clenched into tight fists as he grimaced at the shameless lies spewing from the man's mouth.
"To even suggest that we hold a monopoly over markets is ridiculous. Nothing more than sour grapes from our competitors because we are the more attractive option to consumers. We have no plans to cease our offerings in the Japanese market, nor will we be slowing our expansion into foreign ones…"
The interview continued in the same vein for the rest of the program, but Uzushi's mind was elsewhere. The words emanating from the television grew muffled, like distant echoes fading away. His vision swam, and he blinked rapidly, struggling to focus.
Then, the recording ended.
Uzushi was once again left alone with only the static hum of electricity to keep him company. The VHS player whirred beneath the set as its tape ended. Staring at the frozen devil on the screen, Kurosaki's face was calm, mocking him even now.
An up-and-coming employee, eager to prove himself; eager to be part of the new generation of business leaders. Uzushi remembered meeting Kurosaki for the first time. He came with accolades of recommendations from his co-workers and high praise from prior bosses. It seemed like an obvious choice to promote the young man.
Having found success in his own career, Uzushi prided himself on his ability to read people, and when he met Kurosaki, he saw a man who was desperate for approval. At the time, he'd thought nothing of Kurosaki's unusual acclaim; after all, he was just a young man looking to find his place in the world.
How wrong he was.
Only now could he see how Kurosaki slowly chipped away at his foundation. He sowed poison amongst his staff; he poisoned their minds with venom, of dissent and rebellion. Of misdirection, miscommunication, and sabotage. Through all the restructurings, only Kurosaki remained, remaining silent as Uzushi let others go, his face hidden behind that mask of a smile.
The old man's hazy eyes drifted to the pile of cassette tapes beside the television. There were dozens of them—some scribbled with dates, others left unmarked. If one were to go through all of them, a single link was apparent. You would only find interviews and news reports of the same man on those tapes.
Somewhat amusingly, such a collection wasn't unusual in this day and age.
Kurosaki Kageyama was a household name. He was a celebrity, someone who could do no wrong. No matter where you went, the man's face was plastered across the front pages of newspapers, his voice and charm filling the airwaves. The Yamato Group came to be regarded as the poster child of Japanese corporations, helmed by Kurosaki, an overseas empire built atop his rotting legacy.
Could nobody else see it? Uzushi thought he was going insane.
The young man on the screen was definitely a monster; a sociopath with no empathy, no remorse, and no morals. Yet, why did every journalist, commentator, and analyst seem to adore him? Why did everybody sing his praises?
The answer was simple.
They were too afraid to speak out, too afraid to question anything. Criticism was bombarded by apologetic defenders. It was a conspiracy of silence. And the others, those who lapped up the words of the media could not see it.
Uzushi's body trembled—not from fear as before, but rage. Rage, as his hands trembled as he clutched the arms of his chair. Rage, as his breath came in ragged gasps. But the pain in his chest was a reminder; his breathing laboured.
He was getting old.
The hourglass was running thin.
Was it all for nothing? A life spent toiling at a desk, too caught up in meetings to watch his daughter grow up, reduced to nothing in a moment of blind indulgence at the hands of that man.
'You love your family, Uzushi-san?'
Uzushi gritted his teeth.
'How bold an assertion.'