Rebirth in Japan: The Heiress Who Conquered the World

2:13 AM. A 7-Eleven in Adachi Ward.

Only one person stood behind the register.

Ono Rika had been working the night shift at this store for forty-seven days.

From 10 PM to 6 AM. Hourly wage: 780 yen. Monthly income: about 116,000 yen. After rent and utilities, what remained was barely enough to eat.

Three months ago, she was still employed at a real estate company in Roppongi. Annual salary: 3.2 million yen. It wasn’t much, but it allowed one person to live decently in Tokyo.

She had a regular lunch spot, plans to visit the hot springs in Hakone at year’s end, and a Burberry trench coat she had bought three years ago after saving for two months.

The trench coat was still in her closet.

The company shut down on August 15th.

The president stood at the morning meeting for thirty seconds, said, ”Today is the last day,” then gave a ninety-degree bow and walked out of the conference room.

HR handed out envelopes at the door. Inside was the last half-month’s salary and a certificate of separation.

When Rika lined up for her envelope, she was still holding a can of coffee she had just bought from the vending machine.

She never finished that can of coffee.

The convenience store in the early morning was very quiet. The buzz of the fluorescent tubes was the only steady sound in the space.

Outside the glass windows lay an empty prefectural road. Streetlights lit a section of concrete guardrail where a half-torn election poster hung. Only half of the candidate’s face remained.

Rika stood behind the register with nothing to do.

Tonight, she had processed sixteen transactions so far. The average purchase was around 370 yen.

Canned coffee and rice balls were the main items. Three people bought cigarettes. No one bought magazines. The issues of Shukan Bunshun and Weekly Shincho on the rack had already gathered a thin layer of dust.

Her gaze fell on a copy of Employment Magazine: Autumn Issue tucked under the register. A colleague from the afternoon shift had left it there, opened to a page near the middle, the spine creased from use.

She picked it up.

She flipped through a few pages. Most companies’ recruitment columns read ”several positions,” which in the job market meant they might hire or might not.

A few wrote directly, ”Recruitment suspended for this fiscal year.”

When she turned to page 137, her finger stopped.

A full-page advertisement.

White background. A silver-gray crest printed in the upper left corner. It looked like a mitsudomoe, though she wasn’t entirely sure.

On the right, large black text read:

”S.A. Group is hiring full-time employees. No educational requirements. Applicants with retail, logistics, or real estate experience are welcome.”

Four positions were listed below: logistics warehouse management, S-Mart store operations, SIS data center maintenance, and S.A. construction site supervision.

The starting salary was printed on the bottom line. It was 20,000 yen lower per month than her salary at the real estate company, but it said ”full-time employee.”

Full-time employee. Complete social insurance. Biannual bonuses for summer and winter. Full coverage of transportation expenses.

In this magazine, or rather, in this October, this was the only page where she had seen the words ”full-time employee” and ”no educational requirements” together.

Rika fished a pencil out from under the register.

She drew a circle in the corner of the page.

The pencil tip pressed into the paper and paused for a second. Then she closed the magazine and slipped it back under the register.

2:31 AM. The automatic door slid open.

A man in work clothes walked in.

He looked to be in his thirties. Dried cement dust clung to his safety boots, and his work jacket zipper was held together with a safety pin.

She noticed that safety pin because she had repaired her own umbrella the same way.

He carried an S-Mart shopping bag in one hand and a Uniqlo bag in the other.

”Welcome.” As Rika bowed her head, an inappropriate thought crossed her mind:

Were these two companies also under that S.A. Group?

The man went to the beverage cabinet and took a can of black coffee.

”Thank you for your patronage.” Rika rang up the change and pushed the coffee and receipt across the counter.

The man picked up the coffee, nodded, turned, and left.

The automatic door closed.

The convenience store was empty again.

In the speaker overhead, the BGM switched from a noisy commercial jingle to the next track.

Piano.

Then vocals.

A very quiet female voice.

Her breathing was steady and her tone was clear, as if it came from far away, yet it also felt close. It was like someone standing between the shelves and the freezer, singing softly to the air.

Rika stood behind the register, her hands resting on the edge of the cash register.

In Adachi Ward at 2:35 AM, under the harsh fluorescent lights, this song sounded exceptionally clear.

She listened for more than ten seconds.

Her nose stung.

The night she received her bonus and bought the Burberry trench coat, she had gone to karaoke to celebrate. The voice then was exactly the same as this.

She lowered her head and pressed her index finger to the bridge of her nose. Then she straightened up and retied her apron strings.

The song was still playing.

She bent down again, pulled the employment magazine out from under the register, and flipped to page 137.

She looked at the circle drawn in pencil.

She stared at it for five seconds.

Then she closed the magazine and put it away.

She looked up.

On the prefectural road outside the glass window, at the easternmost edge of the skyline, a very thin grayish-white slit had appeared. Dawn was coming soon.

2:47 AM. Three hours and thirteen minutes until the shift change.

Rika slipped her hand into her apron pocket. Her fingers touched the pencil.

She didn’t let go.

---

When Kimura Yoshio reset his taximeter, it was 11:04 PM.

Roppongi Crossing, Minato Ward.

He parked in the fourteenth spot of the taxi waiting area. At this time last year, all eighteen spots would have been full, with seven or eight cars lined up behind.

Tonight, including his, there were five cars total.

He turned off the engine and rolled down the window a finger’s width.

The night wind of late October poured in, carrying a chill and the smell of cooking oil drifting from a nearby izakaya’s exhaust vent.

Kimura was fifty-seven years old this year and had been driving a taxi for nineteen years.

From Showa 63, no, it was called Heisei now, he had been running the Roppongi to Ginza route.

Last year, this route was the golden route for Tokyo’s night transport.

What was Roppongi like last year?

At 11 PM, the intersection was like a pot of freshly boiled water.

Men in suits poured out of the buildings, holding 10,000 yen bills to hail cabs.

Those people didn’t wait on the sidewalk. They rushed into the street to flag them down.

Some couldn’t get a car and offered more money outright.

”Driver, Ginza, 15,000.” ”Shinjuku, 20,000, will you take me?”

Go. Of course he would go.

Why wouldn’t he go?

On his best night last December, he made fourteen trips. His total earnings were 92,000 yen.

When he got home, it was already dawn. His wife had miso soup ready for him. He fell asleep at the table before he could finish it.

That day, he dreamed he bought a new car. A beautiful white Crown.

Tonight, he had made four trips so far.

The first trip, from Akasaka to Shinbashi, was a drunk middle-aged man. As soon as he got in, he said ”Home,” then leaned back in the seat and snored.

When they arrived in Shinbashi, Kimura called to him three times before he woke up.

When paying, the man fumbled in his wallet for a long time. In the end, all he could scrape together were coins. 1,400 yen.

The second trip came after forty minutes of empty cruising. He picked up a young couple in Azabu-Juban.

The boy wore a Uniqlo fleece jacket, and the girl carried a bag that didn’t look cheap. Destination: Shibuya.

The boy watched the meter the entire time. Every time it jumped 80 yen, his shoulders tensed slightly.

When they arrived in Shibuya, the fare was 2,200 yen. The boy paid, no tip.

Last year, young people like them would toss a 5,000 yen bill and say ”Keep the change.”

The third and fourth trips added up to 3,100 yen.

A total of 6,700 yen. Not even as much as one trip used to be.

Kimura fished a rice ball out of the glove box. He had bought it that afternoon at the S-Mart near his home before his shift.

Umeboshi flavor, 100 yen. The S-Food logo was printed on the wrapper.

He tore open the wrapper and took a bite. The rice was packed very tightly, a bit harder than a convenience store rice ball, but there was plenty of umeboshi.

He chewed the rice ball, looking at Roppongi Avenue through the windshield.

The French restaurant across the street was closed.

The sign was still there, but the display window was pitch black. An A4 notice was taped to the glass: ”Closed due to various circumstances.”

The high-end club next door was also closed. The bar beside it was still open, but there was no receptionist in a black suit at the door, and the neon lights were only half-lit.

Half the storefronts on the street looked like someone had erased them one by one.

11:41 PM. The radio crackled.

The dispatcher’s voice was flat: ”Any cars near Roppongi? Rideshare order, going to Adachi Ward.”

Adachi Ward. At least forty minutes one way.

With the late-night surcharge, the meter might reach 7,000 yen.

But Adachi Ward meant the return trip would likely be empty. Forty minutes back, and fuel would eat up over 1,000 yen.

Kimura pressed the talk button: ”Kimura, accepting order.”

---

The passenger was a woman.

Around thirty years old, wearing a dark gray coat, carrying a paper bag. She gave the address: a certain town, a certain chome in Adachi Ward.

After getting into the car, she didn’t speak.

Kimura glanced in the rearview mirror. She was leaning back in the seat, eyes closed, but not asleep. Her lips were slightly pursed, as if she were enduring something.

The edge of a clear folder stuck out of the paper bag.

There were a few papers in the folder. Kimura didn’t look on purpose, but when he stopped at a red light, his peripheral vision caught the header of the top sheet: ”Resignation Notice.”

What on earth was wrong with this era?

The car entered the Shuto Expressway.

The late-night highway was very empty. The orange streetlights swept over the roof at fixed intervals.

The radio was on, tuned to FM Tokyo, the volume turned very low. He didn’t catch what the DJ was saying, and then a song began playing.

Kimura didn’t recognize this song. He hadn’t kept up with what was popular in recent years.

But that voice made his fingers loosen slightly on the steering wheel.

The backseat was quiet for a few seconds, and then he heard a very faint sound.

A sob.

Very short, only one, and then it was suppressed.

Kimura didn’t look back. He turned the radio volume up one notch.

The singing got a little louder, just enough to cover the silence in the backseat.

From the Shuto Expressway to Adachi Ward took thirty-eight minutes.

Arrived. The meter showed 6,400 yen.

The woman took money out of her bag. One 5,000 yen bill, one 1,000 yen bill, then counted out four 100 yen coins from her coin purse. Exact change.

When she opened the car door, Kimura spoke.

”Miss.”

She paused.

Kimura thought for a moment and finally said only one sentence.

”Take care on your way.”

A very ordinary sentence. A taxi driver said it dozens of times a day.

But tonight, he said it a beat slower than usual.

The woman was silent for two seconds.

”Thank you.”

The car door closed.

Kimura watched her walk into the entrance of the apartment building. Her thin silhouette was illuminated for an instant by the motion-sensor light in the hallway, then disappeared around the corner.

He reset the taximeter.

6,400 yen. Plus the previous 6,700, today’s total was 13,100 yen.

After paying the shift fee and fuel costs, he would take home a little over 5,000.

He started the car. The vacant light came on, casting a red glow onto the quiet residential street of Adachi Ward.

The song on the radio had ended long ago. The DJ was announcing the title of the next song. He didn’t remember it.

But the melody of the song just now was still spinning in his mind.

12:23 AM.

Kimura drove onto the national highway for the return trip.

On both sides of the road were rows of low-rise apartments and corrugated iron warehouses, with the occasional convenience store still lit.

He glanced at the fuel gauge. Enough for two more trips.

He needed to change the oil tomorrow.

He rolled up the car window, rested his left hand on the top of the steering wheel, and reached with his right hand to the passenger seat to touch the half-eaten rice ball.

He stuffed the rest into his mouth, chewed a few times, and swallowed.

The umeboshi was very salty.

The root of his tongue turned sour.

But he couldn’t tell if it was the sourness of the umeboshi, or something else.