"Mommy! I'm scared!"
Takuya Nakayama's hand froze mid-air, as if struck by lightning.
The kitchen door swung open, and Eri, wearing an apron, poked her head out, cradling a small, tear-streaked child who was wiping his snot on her clothes.
She glanced at her husband, who was awkwardly crouched on the floor, and couldn't help but chuckle.
"It seems Executive Director Nakayama has been in the United States for so long he doesn't even recognize his own son anymore," she teased, soothing the child in her arms. "Kazuki, that's your dad—the one who bought you that big car last ti."
Kazuki buried his face deeper in her arms, leaving only the back of his head facing Takuya—a silent protest: Who's this weird uncle? I don't know him.
Takuya sighed and pulled out a limited-edition, pre-release dinosaur plushie he'd picked up at Los Angeles International Airport.
This was a "special edition" exclusive to Universal Pictures executives, unavailable even to the kids queued up outside the store.
"You really don't want it? It's a Tyrannosaurus Rex, the kind that even makes stomach growling sounds!" Takuya pinched the dinosaur's belly, eliciting a cartoonish, gruff roar.
Kazuki's small ears twitched as he secretly turned his head, his eyes fixating on the green dinosaur.
Ten minutes later...
"Daddy! Dragon! Dragon!"
Takuya rubbed his aching nose as he watched his son, perched on his lap, clutching the dinosaur's tail with a death grip.
This week off, even if the company's roof caves in, I won't answer a single work call.
He'd spent his career manipulating millions of Aricans from afar, only to find himself needing to bribe his own son with a toy just to hear him call him "Daddy."
This must be what they call "karma."
Over the next week, Takuya Nakayama completely shed his persona as a strategic business tycoon and embraced the role of full-ti dad.
He changed diapers, pretended to be a horse on the floor, and even endured Eri filming him with a handheld cara, laughing as she captured his foolishness while telling his son bedti stories until he dozed off.
No transatlantic calls, no shrill fax machine beeps—only the sweet, milky scent of ho filling the air.
This feeling... it wasn't half bad.
With his vacation over, Takuya Nakayama stepped back into the Sega Headquarters Building.
The week spent with his family felt like a vivid dream. Upon returning, he found his desk buried under a mountain of paperwork. This ti, however, the stack wasn't topped by the hair-raising red ink reports of losses, but rather a flurry of congratulatory mos from branches across the globe.
The Jurassic Park juggernaut continued to wreak havoc worldwide.
Lines at movie theaters remained unbroken, while ga store shelves were emptied the mont they were restocked by eager players.
The numbers on the financial reports danced dizzyingly.
Takuya brewed himself a strong cup of tea and tossed the intoxicatingly positive sales report aside.
Now was no ti to rest on one's laurels.
He flipped through the developnt progress reports of each team, his gaze sweeping across the densely packed rows of projects like a mine detector.
As he reached the last few pages, a line caught his eye: "Third Developnt Departnt, Fourth Team: New title, Super Pro Baseball, developnt complete. Master disc pressed, awaiting release.
Current status: Idle."
Takuya raised an eyebrow, recalling that this was a group of seasoned veterans in casual sports gas.
Though they hadn't produced any earth-shattering hits, their solid fundantals and punctual delivery made them the ideal team to rely on—no, the ideal execution team.
He folded a corner of the page and pressed the intercom on his desk.
"Koike, look up the current leader of the Third Developnt Departnt's Fourth Team for ."
"If they're available, have them bring their core team mbers to my office at 10 a.m. tomorrow."
Koike's voice ca through the receiver: "Yes, Managing Director. I'll notify them imdiately."
The next morning at 10 a.m., a knock sounded at the door, right on ti.
Hiroshi Ono, the Team Leader of the Third Developnt Departnt's Fourth Team, entered with two key planners.
The group seed sowhat nervous, given the Managing Director's recent teoric rise. Even his slightest idea could send shockwaves through the North Arican market.
"Don't just stand there," Takuya said, pointing to the sofa. "Sit."
Hiroshi Ono had barely sat down, before he could even organize his thoughts to report their progress, when Takuya spoke first: "I heard your Super Pro Baseball project just submitted the master disc? Are you temporarily without assignnts?"
"Uh, we're... we're brainstorming for inspiration on our next project," Hiroshi Ono said, wiping an imaginary sweat from his forehead. This usually ant they hadn't settled on anything yet.
"I have a suggestion," Takuya said, leaning forward. His fingers tapped a rhythmic pattern on the table. "Football. Are you interested?"
Hiroshi Ono blinked in surprise. "Football? Managing Director, while the J.League's opening match at the National Stadium last month—Kawasaki Verdy versus Yokohama Marinos—did indeed draw explosive ratings, the buzz—"
"The buzz is only part of it," Takuya interrupted, pulling a rough draft from his drawer and sliding it across the table. "What year is it next?"
"1994... the Arican World Cup?" Hiroshi Ono responded quickly.
"Exactly. The J.League will ignite the fla, and the World Cup will fan the flas. For the next two years, the hormones of Japan—and the world—will be poured onto the football fields." Takuya paused, a sly smile playing on his lips. "I approached Shimizu's Third Group about this a couple of days ago. When they heard about the need for complex player movent AI, realistic physics collisions, and real-ti calculations for twenty-two players, the old man said they weren't experts in that and turned it down."
Hiroshi Ono exchanged glances with the two planners, suddenly feeling confident.
So this was the tough nut no one else could crack. But that also ant it was an opportunity.
Shimizu had made his na in fighting gas, but he lacked the expertise in ball sports logic that the Fourth Group possessed.
"Managing Director, we can handle the AI logic," Hiroshi Ono said, quickly getting into the groove, his eyes burning with professional fervor. "We can adapt the defense positioning algorithm from Super Pro Baseball with so modifications. But if we're going to do this, how far do we need to go? Arcade-style fast-paced action, or—"
"I want realism, but with a satisfying gaplay experience," Takuya said, holding up two fingers. "Target the Arican World Cup next year. Even though the final list of teams hasn't been announced yet, start building the basic fraworks for the top teams. There will be 24 teams in total."
"What about the Japan team?" one of the planners blurted out. "The qualifying situation looks good now, but what if—"
Takuya gave him a piercing look.
As a transmigrator, he knew all too well the tragedy that would unfold in Doha in a few months—the darkest chapter in Japanese football history. In the final minutes of extra ti, Iraq would score an equalizer, snatching away Japan's dream of advancing to the World Cup.
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