Takuya Nakayama turned, leaning against the whiteboard with his arms crossed. "But what if we launch a disruptive new business every quarter, or even every month? We'll keep stimulating Wall Street like Pavlov's dogs, conditioning them to see Silicon Valley Online as the industry's weather vane. Every move we make will become the market's benchmark."
The smile on Tom's face gradually froze, replaced by deep contemplation, which then gave way to barely concealed excitement.
"After we've landed this combination of punches," Takuya said, holding up a finger and wiggling it gently, "the partners at Sequoia Capital will be kneeling at our doorstep, begging us to sign the IPO documents. By then, we won't be a $300 million company—we'll be worth at least ten times that."
Tom took a deep breath, his throat feeling dry.
Three hundred million dollars.
Two years ago, that figure would have been pure fantasy.
Back then, Takuya had stood on this barren plot of land and talked about building an "online community" and "recreating Sega." Tom had dismissed it as the ramblings of a rich kid with too much money to burn.
Now, looking at this unnaturally young man before him, Tom felt a chill run down his spine.
This isn't just business, he thought. This is a grand game being played with the whole of Silicon Valley as the chessboard.
And the most terrifying part was that everyone was willingly becoming his pawns, still believing they were getting the better deal.
"Recreate Sega..." Tom muttered to himself. "It seems you weren't joking back then."
"I never joke, especially about making money," Takuya Nakayama said, picking up his coffee again and taking a sip. The bitter aftertaste spread through his mouth, followed by a lingering sweetness. "But let's save these words for when Frank the workaholic calms down. Right now, he's probably forgotten his own name."
Just then, the conference room door swung open.
Frank strode in, the excitement from earlier still lingering on his face, as if he'd just given a passionate speech to the Development Department.
"It's all set! The Development Department's going to be swamped for the next two weeks!" He grabbed the half-full, long-cold Americano on the table and downed it in one gulp, completely oblivious to the awkward silence from the other two.
Tom leaned back in his chair, twirling an empty paper cup in his hand, his eyes darting back and forth between Frank. His gaze was like that of someone watching a rabbit that had just fallen into a trap and was still foolishly celebrating, both mischievous and tinged with anticipation.
Takuya Nakayama, meanwhile, kept his head down, blowing on the foam in his cup, seemingly oblivious to everything.
The air was too quiet, so quiet it made Frank's back prickle.
After a full minute of staring each other down, Frank finally couldn't stand it anymore.
He touched his face, then glanced down at his fly. "What? Did I get something on my face?
Or do you guys think this idea is actually terrible?"
"The idea is good," Tom said, pointing at Takuya Nakayama, who had remained silent until now. The mischievous grin he'd been trying to suppress finally broke through. "You just ran too fast—didn't even tie your shoes properly. The main person hadn't even finished speaking, and you were already rushing to declare victory?"
Frank froze, his eyes widening like saucers. His neck twisted mechanically toward Takuya Nakayama, his voice cracking. "Half? Isn't the Navigation Station already perfect? What else is there?"
Just as he leaned in to demand more, Takuya raised a hand and made a "hold on" gesture.
Takuya Nakayama stood up, walked to the nearby refrigerator, grabbed a few ice cubes, and dropped them into a glass. He filled it with water.
The crisp clatter of ice against glass echoed sharply in the silent conference room.
"Sit down," Nakayama said, sliding the frosty glass across the table to Frank. His tone was as calm as if soothing a restless patient. "Drink this first to cool your head. I'm afraid you won't be able to handle what I'm about to say."
Frank's Adam's apple bobbed as he glanced at the ice water, then at Nakayama's seemingly harmless smile.
He slumped back into his chair, snatched the glass, and took a large gulp.
The icy water slid down his esophagus, sending a shiver through him. The feverish heat in his mind finally subsided slightly.
"Alright, I'm calm now," Frank said, setting the glass down. He leaned forward, hands braced on his knees, like a schoolboy waiting for his teacher's scolding. "Go ahead. What other heart-stopping idea do you have? I'm ready."
Takuya Nakayama rose and walked to the door, locking it with a decisive click.
The sound made Frank's heart leap again. The paper cup in his hand nearly crumpled.
Tom, intrigued, shifted into a more comfortable position, looking like he was waiting to see a good show.
"I call this thing a Weblog," Takuya Nakayama said, settling back on the sofa and uttering the newly coined term.
"Web—log?" Frank rolled the word around in his mouth. "A web log? Sounds like some boring document a programmer uses to record server errors."
"No, it's WebLog—A log of my web wanderings," Takuya corrected. He leaned forward, his tone becoming slightly seductive. "Or, to make it sound cooler, you could split it up: WeBlog."
"We—Blog?"
"Exactly. We." Takuya pointed at Frank, then at himself. "Right now, BBSs are like chaotic public squares where everyone shouts through megaphones. It's lively, but no one remembers anyone else. Posts sink like stones thrown into the sea. But what if we built each person their own house next to the square?"
Frank's eyes flickered, as if he'd grasped something.
"Let's make this a sub-site of the BBS," Takuya Nakayama continued. "Each user gets their own independent URL. Here, they're the king. They can write articles, post photos, record what they ate today, or even curse at their neighbors. They can tag their content—'Computers,' 'Games,' or 'Bikinis.'"
Tom whistled.
Takuya Nakayama glanced at him and turned to Frank. "Of course, moderation is crucial. I don't want to open Silicon Valley Online and think I've stumbled into Las Vegas's red-light district."
Frank didn't smile. His mind raced. "But what's the fundamental difference from a BBS? Isn't it just a centralized collection of posts?"
"The difference lies in sovereignty," Takuya Nakayama said, holding up a finger. "On a BBS, you're just a member of the community. On a Weblog, you're the owner of your space. You can set permissions—who can see what. You can even link your grand pronouncements from the BBS here, hanging them on your wall for everyone to see."
Frank began to fidget.
This design, which catered so directly to human vanity, was like a poison.
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