The Chief Director Ultimatum
Squeak— Kyung-ho's wheelchair wheels screamed as they rolled toward the dormitory building.
Sparse streetlights lit the front entrance, where a pitch-black sedan sat puffing engine heat. It was a car he vaguely remembered seeing somewhere before.
Click. The front passenger door swung open.
"You're here?"
Kimura Shunsuke stepped out in a suit. His face looked noticeably gaunt as he forced a wry smile. Kyung-ho halted his wheelchair wheels and gazed up at him steadily.
"How'd you know I'd show and wait like this, Mr. Kimura?"
Kimura shook his head at the question.
"I've been waiting two days."
"No way, you didn't have to go that far..."
"I figure it's worth it."
Kimura cut him off with firm conviction.
"Mark my words—a genius like you won't come around again for another ten years."
Try twenty.
Feeling a bit better despite himself, Kyung-ho shot back.
"You seem pretty confident today."
"Of course."
With that, Kimura pulled a warm canned coffee from his pocket and carefully set it on Kyung-ho's knee.
"Drink this while we talk. Still kinda chilly out, even in March."
Kyung-ho gripped the can and replied.
"I came to crash, and you're handing me coffee?"
"Haha, fair point."
Kimura leaned lightly against the car body, let out a sigh, and got down to business.
"Main animator spot's yours."
Main animator, huh...
Not a bad offer. Hell, for a rookie at a major like Tatsumino Production, it was overly generous. But it still fell short for Kyung-ho. He felt the can's warmth and spoke indifferently.
"Not enough."
As if he'd been waiting for it, Kimura pressed on.
"Got promises for an immediate long-term visa, top-tier mansion, and bonuses tied to ratings."
The absurd lineup of perks made Kyung-ho's eyes widen. Even he hadn't expected Tatsumino to swing this hard. Confirming the reaction, Kimura flashed a triumphant smile and doubled down.
"President pushed it through against the board's objections. Treatment like this? Good luck finding it anywhere else."
True enough. Kyung-ho nodded.
"So? Starting to think about it?"
"I want just one thing."
Kyung-ho's dry tone sliced through. Expectation flickered in Kimura's eyes—this was the first time Kyung-ho had named a specific demand during all their scouting talks.
"Shoot. Heard to make it worth your while, so lay it out easy."
"No need for cash bonuses. Give me the director position."
Silence.
"Wh-what? You mean animation director? I could ask about that, maybe..."
Kyung-ho shook his head.
"Not animation director. Chief director. Full creative control included—then I'll consider it."
The smile froze on Kimura's lips. He scratched the back of his head, flustered.
"...Th-that might be tough..."
"Then no dice. Sorry for the wasted trip."
Kyung-ho handed back the canned coffee and casually released the wheelchair brake.
"Tell 'em no chief director spot means no deal."
"Kyung-ho! Hold on...!"
Kimura reached out to stop him but trailed off, realizing it was pointless. This wasn't some bluff. Kyung-ho had never thrown out empty talk like that. He was dead serious about the chief director role.
But the higher-ups might read it differently.
A bad feeling churned in Kimura's gut. He bit his lip as the returned coffee cooled in his hand.
Tatsumino Production president's office.
Yoshida Ippei stared out at the skyscrapers while listening to Kimura's report.
"...Demanded chief director? Tell me I misheard 'animation director'?"
Kimura wiped cold sweat and bowed his head.
"...He specified chief director, with full directing authority."
A twisted smile crept across Yoshida's face.
"So I didn't mishear."
A short laugh escaped—more incredulous snort than mirth. Yoshida turned slowly. His eyes gleamed like a reptile eyeing prey through his magnifying glasses.
"Kimura. Your take?"
"...Give me a little more time. I'll convince him to drop the chief director demand."
"No. That's not it."
Yoshida clicked his tongue and tapped Kyung-ho's key animation sheets on the desk.
"Kid's a genius, alright. Earned his arrogance."
He scooped up the sheets. Even Yoshida, no art expert, was awestruck at first glance.
"But chief director? No."
He grabbed a document from the desk.
"Spot's already promised to someone."
The paper was a contract prepared for a famed animator his late brother had cherished. When Yoshida took over as president—knowing zilch about anime—the man quit in disgust. Yoshida had begged him back, even offering the chief director role despite his "economics-first" management style. Now scrap it? What the hell?
And I'd look like a fool.
Decision made, Yoshida grabbed his fountain pen, signed the contract, and called out.
"Kimura."
Kimura's shoulders twitched.
"...Yes."
"That Kyung-ho punk..."
The heavy air made Kimura swallow hard.
"...Break him."
Break him?
"President, Kyung-ho's one-of-a-kind. He's at Moonrise now, but Toei or some other major could snatch him anytime..."
"That's why you break him."
Yoshida finished signing, eyes flashing as he locked onto Kimura's.
"We know that—why else scramble to snag him?"
He snatched up Kyung-ho's key animation again, then hurled it to the floor.
"Won't join us? Then smash him. Can't hand a guy like this to the competition."
"..."
The extremity left Kimura speechless.
"Start by stealing Moonrise's air slot. Squeeze the sponsors' funding lines, scout every damn subcontractor they got if you have to."
Yoshida slammed the pen cap shut. Click—a grating sound echoed. He clamped a cigar between his teeth and lit it with a metal lighter.
Hooo—
"Won't watch some fresh Korean kid upend the industry. Isolate the bastard till he crawls back begging for a pencil."
"...Understood."
Kimura withdrew. Only Yoshida's cold cigar smoke lingered in the office.
Riiiing—
A sharp phone bell pierced Moonrise Production's office, thick with the sounds of work. A production staffer grabbed the receiver.
"Moonrise here. ...Yes? What? No, at this point...!"
His voice rose in pitch. Panic clear, every eye in the room snapped to him. Key animators froze mid-stroke, in-betweeners halted their coloring.
"No, the station chief approved that slot himself! Saturday evening prime time, and now suddenly...? Hello? Hello?!"
The receiver clattered down. His hand trembled faintly, face drained white.
"...What'd they say?"
Tomizawa, the director, asked with a stone face. The staffer swallowed dryly before forcing words out.
"Network notified us unilaterally. Saturday 7 PM slot's gone. Instead..."
"Instead?"
"Saturday midnight. Late-night block."
Ice-water silence flooded the office.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean!!!!"
Tomizawa bellowed, but no one flinched. Everyone knew what a late-night shove meant.
"The cash we poured just to snag that slot—and now this bullshit!"
Saturday evening prime and midnight? Ad rates and viewership leagues apart. For a robot anime targeting kids, late night was a death sentence.
"Reason? Gimme a reason to swallow this!"
Tomizawa roared in outrage, but the staffer just shook his head.
"'Upper decision.' Hung up one-sided."
"Goddamn... external pressure."
Heads drooped at Tomizawa's mutter. The hope they'd burned their lives fueling crashed against cold reality, shattering. The director bit his lip; someone else sighed deeply, setting down their pencil.
"Fuckin' hell."
"Who the hell's behind this?"
As murmurs rose, Tomizawa—lost in thought—asked one more thing.
"What show's taking our slot?"
"Th-they didn't say specifically..."
"You should've asked that much!"
Then, from the corner, Kyung-ho wheeled over from refining mecha key animation.
"Director."
"We need to know to counter somehow!"
"Director."
"What!!!!"
Tomizawa whirled, bloodshot eyes on the wheelchair. But Kyung-ho wore the faintest smile. Seeing the calm face, Tomizawa reined in his ragged breaths and looked down.
"...Hoo... What?"
"Why the long face?"
Tomizawa's blood pressure spiked at the casual probe, but he clamped down and continued.
"Kyung-ho, you heard? Late night? Robot cartoon airing when kids are asleep—what future's in that? It's a death knell."
At the director's vulnerability, Kyung-ho patted the thick key animation stack on his lap and dropped one line.
"Actually, it's perfect. No—a golden setup."
"What're you on about?! Ditching our core kid audience—what's 'perfect'?"
Won't get it yet.
Kyung-ho ignored the fiery temper and tossed a single sheet onto the desk.
"Director. You really think this show's prime-time material?"
The zen-like question narrowed Tomizawa's eyes. The sheet showed Kyung-ho's freshly finished key animation of Bandam's battle scene.
"You like heavy themes like war and anguish since you were a kid?"
"...Nah."
"This key animation, then. Looks like kid-level play to you?"
Tomizawa's gaze locked on it. The scraped gauntlet texture, hydraulic fluid spraying from bullet impacts, the cockpit boy's terror-wide eyes trembling faintly.
Compelling. Goosebump-level magnetic. But adult senses only.
"...Yeah, too heavy for kids."
"Exactly why it's good."
Kyung-ho wheeled closer.
"Director, adults need to see this. Only they can grasp its true value."
Tomizawa fell silent. The overwhelming density in the precise lines. Each frame shattered anime conventions with bold freedom.
"Not kids—burnt-out adults. That's how Bendam stands out for real."
Gooseflesh prickled Tomizawa's hands. Giant robot kid-fodder targeting adults? Never crossed his mind.
"Adults let us twist good-vs-evil clichés. They know 'em, so the shock hits harder. War's ugly face? No burden. And..."
"And?"
"...I designed Bendam for adults from the start."
"...!"
What maniac...
"Planned to target adults all along?"
Anger washed from Tomizawa's voice, replaced by eerie excitement.
"Obviously."
Kyung-ho's grin was infuriatingly punchable.