Rebirth in Japan: The Heiress Who Conquered the World

Late January 1990.

****

Tokyo, West Exit of Shinbashi Station.

The black plastic receiver slipped from Kudo’s slick fingertips and slammed into the base of the payphone. It swung on its coiled cord while the dial tone, mixed with the rain outside, pounded against his unfocused eyes.

Kudo pushed open the folding glass door of the phone booth. Cold winter rain slapped his face. He joined the crowd of office workers heading home, shuffling forward without direction. His shoes sank into puddles, splashing grimy water onto the leather he used to polish three times a day. He didn’t care.

His mind looped the broker’s flat ultimatum from Daiwa Securities.

At 3:00 PM sharp, his account had been forcibly liquidated. The five million yen he’d scammed from his uncle in the countryside two weeks ago, plus the company funds he’d embezzled, had evaporated in the market’s relentless slide.

The audit for the missing funds was set for 9:00 AM tomorrow.

A five-million-yen hole. He couldn’t cover it.

He rode the Yamanote Line to Shinjuku and followed the crowd through the ticket gates.

The red neon sign for Kabukicho Ichibangai shorted in the rain, hissing and spitting ghostly blue sparks along its rusted frame. Rainwater dripped from a faded awning and struck the asphalt.

The street buzzed with talk of year-end bonuses and New Year’s lucky bags. Each laugh tightened the knot in Kudo’s chest. Like a stray dog avoiding light, he drifted from the main road and wandered into a dark back alley.

His navy custom overcoat was soaked through, heavy on his back, reeking of damp, cheap wool. Every breath dragged in the stench of rotting garbage and rusted metal.

A dull thud echoed from deeper in the alley.

Thump.

A body slammed into the red brick wall.

Kudo stopped walking.

Ten meters ahead, a young man in an expensive Italian suit was pinned in a puddle by two yakuza in black raincoats.

”Repayment was due at three this afternoon,” one of them said flatly. He lifted his combat boot and set it on the young man’s right hand. ”But I can see you’re not paying it back anyway.”

He pressed down.

Crack.

The sharp snap of bone echoed through the alley.

The young man screamed, his body convulsing in the muddy water like a fish on land.

”Tomorrow morning. Daikoku Pier. Deep-sea fishing boat,” the yakuza spat on the young man’s cheek. ”Your kidneys and corneas should cover the five hundred thousand dollars in interest.”

Footsteps faded into the puddles. Soon the only sound was rain tapping on a corrugated trash can.

Out on the main street, a pachinko parlor blasted a hit song by a popular idol duo at full volume. The sweet, cloudless harmony shredded in the wind and bled into the alley, mixing with the smell of blood.

”Stop! Stop! Sabishii Nettaigyo...” – Lonely Tropical Fish...

Kudo stared at the heap in the water. He dragged his stiff legs forward, step by step, and stopped beside the young man.

The man lay face-up in the puddle. His Keio University baseball jacket was black with mud. The ring and pinky fingers on his right hand were twisted at impossible angles, pale bone jutting through torn skin into the rain. Blood spread from his fingertips, blooming dark red across the water.

The young man gulped rainwater, chest heaving. He turned his head, bloodshot eyes finding Kudo.

”Smoke...” His voice was a thread.

So it can talk. This is a person.

Kudo numbly dug into his soaked overcoat and pulled out a half-crumpled pack of Seven Stars. He put one in the young man’s mouth and one in his own. The plastic lighter sputtered before catching. He lit the young man’s cigarette, then his own.

The bitter tobacco briefly beat back the smell of blood.

Kudo leaned against the wet brick wall and slid down until he was slumped in the puddle of blood and mud.

Neither spoke.

Only the distorted idol song echoed from outside, mixing with the rain. Large drops hit a rusted fire escape, tapping out a broken metallic rhythm.

A discarded plastic bag spun slowly in a turbid puddle. Kudo stared at it.

His whole life, he’d maintained the dignity of a mid-level section chief at Daidou Trading—bowing to bosses, posturing for his wife, playing the big-city success for his rural relatives. He’d sealed away his fear and self-loathing and lived like a grotesque in a suit.

Now the disguise was gone.

He was no different from the trash floating in the sewage. The idea of ”human life” made no sense anymore. He had lost the right to exist as a person.

Outside the alley, the pink neon of a cheap love hotel flashed urgently. Sickly green and hot pink light swept across the ground, making the puddles look diseased. The light slid over the young man’s ruined hand. Blood still seeped out, running with the rain toward the sewer grate.

The young man’s left hand held his cigarette. Ash grew long, trembled, and fell into the mud, vanishing. The ember reached the filter and burned his finger. He twitched. The cigarette dropped.

Sizzle—

The ember hit the puddle and died.

Still, neither moved.

The cold soaked through Kudo’s coat like an ice awl. He shook uncontrollably, teeth chattering. Beside him, the young man’s breathing grew heavy and erratic as fever from the injury set in.

They sat between rotting garbage and dented trash cans.

The Nikkei, margin calls, family expectations—all those massive, crushing rules felt distant now. In this corner of stench and cold, they’d found a numbing peace. They’d accepted it: they were discarded.

The neon tube at the alley mouth popped with a burst of sparks. The pink light died. The alley dropped into shadow.

The rain turned to fine sleet.

After half an hour of numb cold, the young man used his left hand to push himself up. His back hit the brick wall.

”Katayama,” he said, voice thin. ”Keio, Faculty of Economics... fourth year.”

Kudo turned his head slowly. ”Kudo. Meiji University, Commerce. Daidou Trading... Section Chief.”

Katayama’s eyes were hollow. He stared past the alley at the world that had buried him.

”I built a perfect pricing model,” he whispered. ”Black-Scholes. I borrowed five hundred thousand dollars from the yakuza and put it all into long-term call options.” He lifted his broken hand and watched rain wash over the bone. ”But what good is perfect? When the market crashed, the market makers pulled the plug. No liquidity, no hedges. Nothing wrong with my model...” His smile was worse than tears. ”Nothing wrong with my model...”

Kudo drew a ragged breath. It burned his lungs. ”I embezzled company funds,” he said, his cigarette shaking, ash falling into the puddle. ”Five million yen. I thought if I held one more day, it would rebound. Daiwa hit the liquidation button the second the clock struck three.”

He covered his face. His shoulders—always so rigid with forced dignity—shook in the wind. Tears and mud leaked between his fingers.

Katayama turned his head. He didn’t offer comfort. He just watched Kudo with empty eyes.

Pain lanced through Katayama’s fingers. He spasmed, his left hand clawing the asphalt with a faint shush-shush.

The sound made Kudo stop crying. He lowered his hands. Their eyes met through the rain.

Class, age, education—none of it mattered. In each other’s pupils they saw the same dead color.

”I don’t want to go to that fishing boat,” Katayama said, looking up at the sliver of purple city sky above the alley. ”I heard... the view from the top of the Keio Plaza Hotel is beautiful.”

Kudo braced his hands on his knees and stood.

”Let’s go.”