My Name is Hiroshi Nohara, Star of Neon Film and Television! Chapter 16: Broadcast

anwhile, in Tokyo, Ginza.

Inside a brightly lit private room of an izakaya, the atmosphere was entirely different from the tense and solemn mood of the Suzuki Section.

Iwata Masao sat with his legs crossed, holding a cup of expensive sake, a disdainful smile hanging on the corners of his lips. On the television screen in front of him, the opening of "Yamishibai" was likewise playing.

"Hahaha! Look, look! This is the thing that old stubborn Suzuki ca up with? What kind of drawing is this? Ghostly scribbles?"

A lackey beside him imdiately laughed accommodatingly, "Section Chief, this can't even be called animation at all, right? It's just a few pieces of scrap paper moving. Look at that coloring, it's so dirty, just like an elentary schooler's graffiti!"

"More than just graffiti! Even my son drawing with his feet would be better than this!" Another flatterer pointed at the kamishibai uncle wearing a mask on the screen and said exaggeratedly, "And this voice acting, it sounds like he has a mouthful of thick phlegm stuck in his throat, it's disgusting just listening to it! Even this kind of garbage, Section Chief Takeshita actually let it pass the audit?"

The private room was instantly filled with a cheerful atmosphere. Everyone was unscrupulously mocking the crude and simple images on the screen.

In their eyes, this was not an opponent worthy of facing squarely at all, but an out-and-out joke.

Iwata Masao comfortably took a sip of sake, his heart filled with the thrill of having victory in his grasp.

Did this kind of thing even deserve to be ntioned in the sa breath as his "Onibo Samurai", which had an investnt of two million dollars per episode?

It was simply the biggest joke in the world!

He could already foresee how wonderful that old face of Suzuki Kiyoto's would look after the viewership ratings report ca out tomorrow.

...

On the other side, in the ho of Takada Toshihide, the Deputy Bureau Chief of the TV Tokyo Production Bureau.

This fifty-five-year-old middle-aged man, a figure of imnse power within the television station, had just finished a social engagent. Carrying a few traces of tipsiness, he sat alone resting on an expensive genuine leather sofa.

As if thinking of sothing.

He similarly turned on the television and tuned it to TV Tokyo's late-night slot.

When that unique opening of "Yamishibai" full of the Showa era feel appeared, his brow furrowed slightly.

"Shoddily made."

He gave a cold evaluation.

As a veteran television professional, he could tell at a glance the poverty in this animation's production. Whether it was the art style, the coloring, or those almost negligible dynamic effects, everything revealed a shabby, small-workshop feel.

The corners of Takada Toshihide's lips curled into a cold sneer.

"Is this it?" He thought of that Asumi, who had always seed submissive, silent, and subordinate to him, this Deputy Bureau Chief of the Production Bureau who had transferred from Kanto TV to TV Tokyo. He couldn't help but let out a snort of derision from his nose.

His eyes were even more incomparably mocking.

"Asumi oh Asumi, did you think you could shake my position relying on this kind of unpresentable thing? How truly naive."

Takada Toshihide's mood couldn't help but beco joyful.

He picked up the whiskey on the table, preparing to go rest after finishing watching this joke. He believed the market would give Suzuki Kiyoto and the supporters behind him the loudest slap in the face.

...

Inside the apartnt of the Audit Departnt Section Chief, Takeshita Ai.

She didn't drink alcohol, nor did she eat snacks. She rely stared intently at the screen. When that hoarse narration sounded, when that man wearing a mask appeared, her eyes not only held no disdain, but instead flickered with a trace of bizarre brilliance.

She knew that a good show was about to begin.

On the television screen, the story of "The Talisman Woman" officially unfolded.

A young man moving into a new ho, an ordinary apartnt room. Everything looked so daily, so plain.

Yet also so eerie!

...

"Tch, a modern the? What's so scary about this?" Inside the izakaya, Iwata Masao's lackeys curled their lips in disdain.

In their view, horror stories inevitably happened in ancient temples, abandoned villages, or were connected to those legendary ghosts and monsters. This kind of modern urban background fundantally couldn't build up any terrifying atmosphere.

However, as the plot advanced, their voices gradually grew quieter.

The young man sensed it. It seed there was always a gaze coming from the apartnt building opposite.

The cara cut to the window of the opposite apartnt. It was pitch black, and nothing could be seen.

But that feeling of being peeped at, through those static images and that oppressive background sound effect, was accurately transmitted to every audience mber.

The young man drew the curtains.

But that gaze seed to pierce through the walls, remaining dead set on him.

He abruptly lifted his head and looked at the ceiling of his own ho.

There, a small, old talisman was pasted.

"What is that?" In the izakaya, one of Iwata Masao's lackeys asked softly in confusion, "Why does it look so much like a talisman prayed for from a temple?"

No one answered her, and everyone's hearts leaped into their throats.

The young man seed to want to tear that talisman down, but he couldn't reach it. The next day, he discovered that the behavior of the woman in the opposite apartnt grew increasingly bizarre, always looking at him with a chilling gaze.

And the talismans on his room's ceiling seed... to be one more than yesterday.

The mocking sounds in the izakaya had completely disappeared.

Everyone subconsciously sat up straight, staring fixedly at the screen. That rudintary art style, at this mont, was no longer a flaw; instead, combined with those eerie colors and oppressive musical score, it ford an indescribable and hair-raising style.

There were no bloody scenes, no jump-scare sound effects.

But that pervasive chill that seeped into the bones made the air conditioning in the private room feel as if it had instantly dropped several degrees.

Iwata Masao's brows had already twisted into a deep knot.

He set down his wine glass. That face, slightly flushed from alcohol, was now completely gloomy.

Having road the television industry for over a decade, what kind of works hadn't he seen? But this kind of using the cheapest cost to build up such extre psychological horror... it was his first ti seeing it!

This was no longer an issue of production level; this was a... dinsional strike in creativity!

The pace of the story grew faster and faster, the sense of oppression progressing and stacking up.

The talismans on the ceiling of the young man's room grew more nurous by the day.

And the face of that woman opposite also twisted more and more by the day, the resentnt in those eyes almost overflowing the screen.

Finally, it reached the end.

The young man realized that woman had co into his ho and had even pasted up more talismans. He finally erupted and called the police to have the police take her away.

But that woman was still saying sothing, and the young man couldn't hear it at all.

He only knew to go back.

And tear off all the talismans!

So this young man tore and tore, completely tearing off the talismans even on the underside of the overturned table. But as he tore, this young man's expression had already beco extrely terrified.

Because he discovered that sothing was wrong.

Moreover, the young man's inner thoughts also transmitted out—

'I didn't see it! I didn't see anything! I didn't see it!'

The scene abruptly shifted!

A huge, twisted vengeful spirit covered in malicious resentnt occupied the entire screen!

All of them lowering their heads, looking at this young male with malicious resentnt!

"The End".