"A bet?"
Fuyukawa Tetsu froze for a moment.
The term "bet" wasn't hard to grasp—meet certain conditions, win a reward; fail, and face a penalty. Simple enough. But bets like this usually popped up in corporate financing deals, with stakes like equity or assets on the line. He'd never heard of an employee making a bet with their boss in a company setting.
What do I even have that's worth the boss's attention? My kidney?
After mulling it over, Fuyukawa raised his head. "What kind of bet are we talking about?"
"I can approve a budget of one hundred million yen," Miyano Mitei said, stepping out from behind her boss's chair. Swaying her hips—curves that outdid even Kawachi Sayoko's 93-grade peaches—and those long, toned legs, she sauntered over to Fuyukawa. Leaning in close, her breath warm and teasing, she whispered, "But if the product doesn't hit the sales you promised… you'll have to lick my feet."
"?!"
Fuyukawa's brain short-circuited.
What is wrong with this woman?!
He jerked his head to the side, eyes wide with disbelief as he stared at the stunning woman before him. Her breath was soft, but her eyes gleamed with the excitement of a viper sizing up its prey.
"Uh, Minister Miyano, did you just say…?" His gaze instinctively drifted down her shapely legs to the delicate, pale feet wrapped in black stockings, perched in sharp high heels.
Then, out of nowhere, Miyano burst into laughter. "Kidding! If sales don't meet expectations, you'll need to make a formal apology at the department meeting, and your team leader position will be revoked."
"…"
The "lick my feet" comment hit like a freight train. It took Fuyukawa a good minute to recover. After some thought, he nodded. "Got it. But how do we set the sales target?"
"Break down your proposal for me," Miyano said, returning to her chair. She crossed her arms, her voluptuous figure settling in as her cold, elegant face turned serious again, eyes fixed on the screen ahead.
Clearly, she wanted every detail of the proposal before setting expectations.
Fuyukawa didn't hesitate. He directed Kawachi Sayoko to connect her laptop to the projector. As the screen lit up and the room dimmed, he stepped beside the display and began his presentation.
This wasn't like the casual dinner discussion he'd had with Sayoko about the game's story. Different roles, different perspectives.
As a company executive, Miyano didn't have time to play games herself. And honestly, game narratives were tricky—some called them poison, others called them gold. Even top industry pros struggled to judge a game's potential purely from its story. It was too subjective. Otherwise, certain game sequels wouldn't have been roasted into oblivion over something as trivial as a golf club.
Miyano's focus wasn't the story. She cared about the game's design direction, its target audience, and the market's size and characteristics. Her judgment hinged on one thing: market fit and audience appeal.
To put it simply, if the market loved "hot older women," she'd check if the game had enough of that vibe. But whether those characters showed up at the front door, in the bathroom, or in a husband's framed photo to spark a hit? That was beyond her.
Fuyukawa's job was to lay out his market research in detail and highlight how the game's elements and story hit the right emotional triggers for players. In short, the proposal was about selling the vision.
"According to Freud's theory of personality, the human psyche is divided into three parts: the id, the ego, and the superego. The id is the raw, primal desires we're born with. The superego is the moral and social constraints shaped by society, laws, and public opinion. The ego sits in the middle, balancing those desires with what's acceptable.
Both the ego and superego suppress the id in some way. In modern society, survival pressure is low—you can eat without working yourself to death. So why are most people still miserable? Why do they feel worse than their farming ancestors?"
Standing in the projector's glow, Fuyukawa paused to sip water.
Kawachi Sayoko's cute face lit up with admiration, while Miyano, leaning on her elbow with legs crossed, smirked faintly. "Interesting. Go on."
Fuyukawa nodded, pointing at the screen like a teacher. "Because modern cities crush the id. It's not just about lust. Achievement, belonging, security, conquest—these emotions, wired into our genes, make up the id. But in today's world, kids from average families struggle to feel accomplished in big cities. They can't find belonging or security when they're one missed rent payment from eviction. And conquest? Forget it.
My ability is limited—I can't satisfy every single one of those needs. So, I'm focusing on emotional fulfillment. In modern society, sincerity is mocked as 'simping,' and passing up an opportunity is 'dumb.' But those 'simps' and 'fools' who see love as a sanctuary? They have a massive emotional void.
In the real world, they can't find the kind of connection that brings inner peace. They can't win a girl's heart by being true to themselves, but they also can't become smooth-talking liars. The gap between reality and their ideals tears a hole in their psyche.
Our data shows Tokyo is full of young people like this. My game's goal is to meet their emotional needs as much as possible."
After his long spiel, Fuyukawa's throat was parched. Under Sayoko's excited, silent applause, he took another sip of water and glanced at Miyano, who sat backlit in her boss's chair.
"You've done your homework," Miyano said, rubbing her crystal earring with a soft smile. "Your prep is solid. But here's the thing: your game is riding a specific user demand. Unlike evergreen genres like RPGs or stat-heavy MMOs, this demand is tied to current social conditions. It's time-sensitive. If you don't want the market to shift under you, you need to move fast."
"I know. I've planned for it to be done in four months."
"Four months? Good." Miyano tapped at her computer. "Based on your pricing—2,980 yen in Japan, 1,980 in China, 1,350 in the Americas—after platform cuts, with a one-hundred-million-yen budget and a median price point, you'll need to sell 51,478 copies to break even.
Hit 50,000 sales, and I'll call it a pass. Fall short, and Light Bird Studio disbands on the spot."
Sayoko's heart sank, her hand instinctively clutching Fuyukawa's sleeve, her eyes filled with worry.
He gave her a reassuring look and set down his teacup. "No problem."
"Confident, huh?" Miyano's gaze flicked between Fuyukawa and Sayoko, her brow furrowing slightly before a playful smile curved her lips. "I only mentioned the 50,000-sales bet. Care to make another wager, Team Leader Fuyukawa?"
"Huh?" Fuyukawa frowned, puzzled. Then, under his bewildered stare, Miyano glided over to the couch, leaned in close, and purred, "If you can sell over 60,000 copies, I'll grant you one not too outrageous request."