The cheers and excitent from the Kiki's Delivery Service celebration banquet had barely faded when the film's reputation and box office numbers skyrocketed—ushering in what seed to be a glorious sumr for Studio Ghibli.
Takuya Nakayama, nourished by the sweetness of new love, was in high spirits. He even walked through the halls of Sega with a light bounce in his step, humming cheerfully while reviewing the latest art progress for Sonic the Hedgehog.
Then the door to his office suddenly burst open.
"Executive Director!"
It was his secretary, her usual calm expression replaced by panic. She clutched a freshly printed fax in trembling hands.
"Sothing terrible has happened!"
Takuya frowned and took the still-warm fax paper. The mont his eyes landed on the headline, his cheerful mood vanished—wiped out like a fla doused in ice water.
The newspaper headline scread in massive black letters:
"Serial Child Abduction and Murder Suspect Tsutomu Miyazaki Confesses to All Charges!"
The article described in grueso detail how the police had discovered nearly six thousand videotapes in the suspect's ho—many of them containing ani, special effects shows, and even recordings of his own cris.
Line by line, the dia narrative began weaving together terms like "ani," "manga," and "videotapes" with the na of a monstrous killer—binding them tightly, inseparably, in the public's imagination.
A storm was coming.
A storm that threatened to swallow the entire subculture of Japan.
Takuya set the fax down, his expression turning grave.
He had known that this day might co, but when the wave finally hit, its suffocating pressure was far greater than he had imagined.
Then ca the phone call.
The first was from Toshio Suzuki.
"Nakayama-san!" Suzuki's voice cracked through the receiver, hoarse and panicked. The background was chaos. "Have you seen the news? God—this is insane! Every TV station is covering it! They're painting all of us—all of us who make animation—as accomplices to a lunatic!"
The box office for Kiki's Delivery Service took an imdiate hit. Parent groups were already calling for a nationwide boycott of all animated films.
"Calm down, Suzuki-san," Takuya said steadily, his voice carrying quiet authority.
"Calm down? How? Miyazaki's locked himself in his studio and won't co out! Tokuma Shoten's phone lines are exploding!"
"Then let him stay locked in," Takuya said firmly. "Right now, anything we say will be wrong. The dia doesn't want truth—they want carnage. If you step out now, they'll tear you apart."
He paused, then continued in a lower, resolute tone:
"Ghibli's films are about hope and dreams. Believe in your audience. They know the difference between magic and evil. Hold your ground. This storm will pass."
Suzuki's frantic breathing softened slightly on the other end. After a few more words of reassurance, Takuya hung up.
He imdiately dialed Eri Nakagawa.
"It's ," he said.
"I saw the news," she replied, her tone heavy. "My father just finished an ergency board eting. The network's cutting down all ani airti and launching a 'content purification review.'"
"As expected." Takuya leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples.
"What about you guys? What will Sega do?" Eri's voice was laced with worry.
To many conservatives, video gas were already seen as "corrupting the youth." Now this scandal was the perfect excuse to throw the entire dium under the bus.
"Don't worry," he said calmly. "They might want to kill us with one blow—but that depends on whether I let them."
Before Eri could respond, the office door burst open again.
His father, Masao Nakayama, strode in, face dark with fury, followed by a group of visibly distressed executives.
"Takuya!"
He quickly told Eri, "I'll call you later," and hung up.
Standing tall, he faced his father and the executives.
"President. Gentlen. Let's not panic."
One of the board mbers imdiately stepped forward, his voice trembling with emotion.
"Executive Nakayama! The dia's saying we're poisoning young minds with our gas! Our stock is already dropping!"
"Yeah! And the animation projects we've sponsored—they've beco radioactive!" another added.
"I say we suspend all collaborations with ani IPs imdiately! Let the storm pass first!"
The eting room erupted into chaos—voices overlapping, panic spreading.
Through it all, Takuya said nothing. He simply listened, silently, waiting.
Finally, when the noise died down and all eyes turned toward him, he spoke.
"Are you all finished?"
His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the tension like a blade.
"So, because one murderer happened to like animation, we're ready to destroy an entire creative industry?" His gaze swept across the room. "By that logic, should we also shut down every bank in Japan because so bankers embezzle money?"
"That's different!" soone objected.
"No, it isn't!" Takuya snapped, stepping forward, his tone sharp and commanding. "A criminal is a criminal. Art is art. The dia's chasing blood for headlines, and the public's lost in fear. But us—leaders of this industry—are we going to lose our minds too?"
"Now is not the ti to retreat!"
He scanned the room, voice ringing with conviction.
"I know what everyone's feeling right now—panic, anger, helplessness. But I didn't call this eting so we could sit here and complain."
He leaned forward, eyes burning with resolve.
"The dia and the public need a target. And we—ani, manga, gas—are the biggest, easiest one they can find. If we don't draw our own boundaries and set our own standards, soone else will do it for us. And when they do, it'll be a cage."
"Society needs entertainnt and culture. As long as we make it clear what's acceptable and what isn't, they won't lump us together with the filth. Don't forget—this moral crusade might also be fueled by jealousy. Traditional entertainnt industries have been losing profits to us for years. It's not hard to imagine they'd seize this chance to strike back."
The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling in.
"That's why," Takuya declared, his voice rising, "we must form our own self-regulatory organization!"
"Ani, manga, and gas should each establish independent review boards—then unite under a shared rating system!"
"We'll clearly label every work: 'All Ages,' '15 ,' '18 .' We'll invite respected figures—people known for their integrity—to oversee the process. We'll make it crystal clear to parents and the public what's for children and what's not."
"Just like the film industry has its own Motion Picture Code."
"At the sa ti, we'll release a joint statent—publicly condemning and rejecting any works that sexualize children. We'll cut that filth out of our industry completely."
"It may never disappear entirely, but at the very least, we'll keep it where it belongs—down in the sewers."
"This isn't just self-preservation. It's how we protect our right to define our own industry."
Silence fell again.
Every executive in the room stared at him, stunned.
In the face of what could have been the industry's ruin, the young man standing before them had found a way forward.
Then, soone started clapping.
A single, hesitant pair of hands—then another.
And in monts, the room erupted in applause—fierce, unrestrained, echoing through the hall like wildfire.
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