Nakayama Takuya walked over, utterly baffled.
The meeting room door was ajar.
A fierce jazz tape blasted from inside.
The drumbeats were dense, the saxophone wild, making anyone who heard it want to shake a leg.
Nakayama Takuya pushed the door open.
Good grief—the smoke-filled room nearly knocked him flat.
The long table was piled with discarded storyboards and concept art, messy as a dog's nest.
Sunrise director Shinichiro Watanabe, his hair a bird's nest of tangles, had a cigarette clenched between his lips as he frantically drew lines across a whiteboard with a red pen, muttering under his breath.
Beside him stood screenwriter Keiko Nobumoto, biting her nails as she stared fixedly at the character sketches on the wall.
And Hideo Kojima, Sega's ace game producer and a director worth millions, was currently clutching a thick stack of cels and running over from the printer, drenched in sweat.
"Director Watanabe, the revised version of C-cut is out!"
Hideo Kojima carefully set the cels on the table, then casually picked up a rag nearby and, with astonishingly smooth motions, wiped a puddle of coffee stains clean off the tabletop.
He was so practiced that it seemed as though he had done it hundreds of times.
Nakayama Takuya stood in the doorway, dumbfounded.
What the hell?
Sega had poured a fortune into you, given you every resource, made you a Sunrise director, and helped you realize your film dream.
And you were fucking here serving tea, running errands, and working as a janitor for someone else?!
"Ahem!"
Nakayama Takuya cleared his throat heavily.
Everyone in the room immediately stopped what they were doing.
Hideo Kojima turned around and jumped when he saw Nakayama Takuya. He hurriedly tossed the rag in his hand away like a hot potato and wiped his hands