However, his financial situation was really terrible right now—the original owner hadn’t even paid next year’s rent, and it was already December! He couldn’t help but ask again, “So, about how long until there’s news?”

　　Ian Murphy did a quick calculation. Right now, with the addition of new satellite channels, Tokyo Broadcasting TEB was in urgent need of new programs. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be trying to take a shortcut to become a producer—this was just the right opportunity. She smiled and said, “You’ll hear back in at most three days. But I think, with this project and script as a late-night drama, the chances of approval are pretty high.”

　　After all, it was the first time she’d seen this type of thing; it felt very novel, and she figured the programming committee would like it too.

　　“Then I’ll wait three days. This is the phone number for my apartment management office.” Ryan Chandler couldn’t put all his eggs in the Ian Murphy basket, so he directly set a time and left his contact information.

　　If it didn’t work out, he’d just find another TV station and look for a suitable candidate to try persuading next.

　　Ian Murphy agreed, and also gave Ryan Chandler a business card with her office phone and pager number. She gathered up the script and other materials, then glanced at the café’s wall clock and saw it was almost nine o’clock. Besides, now wasn’t the time to discuss the script in detail. She looked over at Ryan Chandler—she was already eager to get back to work. She was supposed to submit her project proposal this week and compete for the new producer position. Now that she had a better, more promising project, she was even more motivated and needed to perfect it quickly for submission.

　　Sometimes, the workplace is all about racing against the clock.

　　Ryan Chandler understood instantly and didn’t want to waste her time. He stood up, took out his wallet, and smiled, “It’s already late, so I won’t take up any more of your time, Miss Murphy. If the project gets approved, we can discuss things in detail then.”

　　If the project wasn’t approved, there was no point in talking more now.

　　He was ready to pay the bill. Even though his finances were tight, he couldn’t lose his sense of dignity as a man. Unexpectedly, Ian Murphy also took out her wallet and smiled, “Let’s just split the bill!”

　　Ryan Chandler politely insisted a couple of times, but seeing that she was truly determined, he had to give in. He was secretly surprised: he hadn’t expected Miss Murphy to be a real feminist, insisting on being equal to men in everything and not willing to enjoy the traditional privileges of women.

　　That was much better than the “feminists” of the twenty-first century—those annoying types who enjoy privileges but run away when it’s time to take responsibility, like dogs...

　　They each paid their share and left the café together. By then, the wind had picked up a bit. Ian Murphy shivered as the breeze hit her and quickly said to Ryan Chandler, “Looks like it’s going to rain. Chandler-san, you should hurry home too, and be careful not to catch a cold.”

　　She was already getting into the role of producer, worried the screenwriter might get sick—screenwriters might not be in the spotlight, but they’re the foundation of a TV drama, like the base of a house. If he didn’t finish his work first, no matter how skilled the builders were, they’d just have to wait around.

　　Ryan Chandler smiled and agreed, watching Ian Murphy leave before turning to head home himself.

　　Very good—the plan had gone surprisingly smoothly. Maybe in three days, he’d have his first job.

Chapter 8: Got a Job

　　After a moment of happiness, Ryan Chandler really didn’t want to get caught in the rain. He only had this one decent set of clothes and didn’t want to send them to the dry cleaners.

　　He hurried home by train, but as soon as he left the station and walked a short distance, the rain started pouring down—big, heavy drops coming down all at once.

　　At this point, Ryan Chandler lost all his mature composure and just ran for it, hands over his head. Luckily, his apartment wasn’t far, and he managed to get back before he was completely soaked.

　　He lived in an old residential neighborhood in Meguro Ward, which would probably be demolished and replaced with a high-rise after Tokyo’s big redevelopment in the 2000s. Not that it mattered—after Japan’s housing market crashed, prices kept falling, with a few ups and downs, but by 2019 they still hadn’t recovered. So, dreaming of making a fortune by investing in real estate was just that—a dream. Even holding value was tough.

　　In Japan, houses had gone from being investments to consumables. You’d buy one for 50 million yen, live in it for two years, and then it’d be worth 45 million. Forget about making a profit—even keeping your money safe was hard.

　　He went straight up to the third floor and entered his apartment. It was a single-person unit, usually rented to out-of-town students. The deposit was three months’ rent, and rent was paid six months at a time. After the original owner was expelled from school, he’d just stayed here ever since.

　　He took off his shoes and socks, carefully hung up his suit, vest, and shirt, and then sat down at the desk. The room only had a desk, a chair, an electric kettle, and a few cups, bowls, and plates. There was a bedding roll piled in the corner. Other than that, he’d sold almost everything else to get money for treating people and gathering information—if the desk and chair hadn’t come with the apartment, he probably would’ve sold those too.

　　Now, the desk was piled with lots of manuscript paper and a fountain pen. The original owner hadn’t been able to adjust to the change in circumstances and refused to go out, so he’d “written” in the apartment, accumulating quite a bit of paper and pens, all of which now belonged to him.