Setagaya Ward. An old shopping street.
Screech—
Transparent tape ripped violently off the roll.
Kimura, the grocery store owner, pressed the edge down hard onto the glass door.
A rough sign with four black characters — "Closing Down Clearance Sale" — stuck to the inside of the glass.
His fingers trembled against the tape.
For six months, the experts on TV had been throwing around terms he didn't understand: "discount rate," "total volume regulation."
And in their view, the economy was still "in great shape"? Just "insignificant fluctuations"?
Kimura didn't know who still thought the economy was thriving. Even if this really was the "routine fluctuation" the experts claimed, that kind of "routine" was enough to crush everything he had.
All he felt was despair.
The upstream wholesalers he'd worked with for over a decade changed overnight.
The delivery drivers blocked the narrow entrance of his shop, tore up their month-end payment agreement, and demanded cash on delivery. No exceptions.
The reason was simple: banks were calling in the wholesalers' loans. No cash meant everyone went down together.
But Kimura's cash register held a few pitiful coins.
The S-Mart hypermarket across the street had a policy: forcibly round down consumption tax for customers.
The penny-pinching regulars on the shopping street had been sucked away by the extreme low prices and the sheer convenience of no change across the street.
The dried goods on Kimura's wooden shelves were covered in dust.
He'd taken a red pen, slashed the price tags, marked everything at half price. Still no one looked.
To pay for stock, he'd emptied the last of his late wife's savings. He'd even begged an acquaintance at the credit union for a loan, only to be kicked out. "Small shops have lost their ability to repay," they said.
Like a drowning man, he clung to this broken capital chain.
He bet everything — his life, his three-generation shop — on the law. He hoped the government would restrict large supermarkets.
But yesterday, the House of Representatives broadcast live on TV.
Prime Minister Kaifu stood at the podium, taking thrown objects and curses, and forced through the bill to fully repeal and amend the Large-Scale Retail Store Law.
The last line of defense in Kimura's heart shattered, along with the Speaker's gavel on TV.
Kimura looked at his empty shop.
Through the dusty storefront, he saw a few housewives with vegetable baskets walk by, chatting and laughing.
That was Mrs. Ito. She'd bought soy sauce at Kimura's for five years.
"I heard a new batch of Hokkaido potatoes came in across the street today. Let's look."
"And the air conditioning's strong in there. Smells like fresh bread. Even if we don't buy anything, it's nice to walk around."
Mrs. Ito carried an S-Mart eco bag. She didn't glance at Kimura's "Closing Down Clearance Sale" sign — not for half a second. She walked straight across the street, laughing with the other ladies.
Kimura's chest heaved.
Yesterday, he'd knelt before a wholesaler's truck, begging for an extension, letting them spit in his face.
And the ones who drove him to this — they were across the street, happily taking the customers he'd served for three generations.
His eyes went bloodshot.
What's so great about it? I don't believe you're perfect! Can a factory-line supermarket have the soul of a small shop?
He shoved open his glass door. The rusty hinges screeched.
He strode out, heedless of anything, and crossed the waterlogged street toward the massive building.
The automatic doors slid open smoothly.
There was no harsh industrial lighting like he'd imagined.
A warm breeze carrying baked flour and oden broth wrapped around him.
The overhead lights were a warm orange, full of everyday life.
Three-meter shelves lined with wood-grain trim stood in perfect rows.
Compared to his messy shop, this didn't feel like a cold discount warehouse. It felt like a stylish, high-end boutique — comfortable.
In this warm "sense of life," Kimura moved stiffly.
He walked to the fresh produce section and stopped at a wooden display of Hokkaido potatoes and onions.
A yellow sign with bold black text hung beside it.
The price was five percent lower than his wholesale cost at Ota Market last week.
Kimura's breath caught. He reached out with a trembling hand and picked up a potato.
Clean skin. Uniform size. No bruises or blemishes.
"Oh my, Mr. Kimura? Are you shopping too?"
A familiar voice came from beside him.
He turned. Mrs. Takahashi, from the corner of the street. She'd been his customer for seven or eight years.
Her cart was piled high with S-Mart specials. No gaps left.
Kimura opened his mouth. No sound came out. He twitched his lips into a stiff smile and put the potato back.
"Mr. Kimura? Are you okay?" Mrs. Takahashi waved a hand in front of him, puzzled.
"I… I'm fine."
He turned and fled down the aisle.
Past the produce section, a row of open refrigerated cases stretched over ten meters.
White light glowed from inside. Cold air condensed into a thin mist.
Kimura's eyes swept the neat goods.
Fresh bento in minimalist clear packaging. Single-serving semi-prepped clean vegetables. Sashimi platters sliced with machine precision. Every shelf looked like a military parade.
Each package was designed so customers could see the contents at a glance. Orderly. Aesthetically clean. White labels showed the product name, calories, and best-before time down to the hour in bold type.
A single-serving sukiyaki kit with Hokkaido F1 crossbred beef and seasonal vegetables.
Price: 390 yen.
That price didn't cover the raw ingredients if he bought them himself.
An S-Mart stocker in a neat uniform pushed a silent cart over. The stocker held a black data terminal with an infrared scanner.
Beep.
The scanner hit the electronic barcode on the shelf. The stocker checked the screen — real-time inventory and shelf-life data — then pulled fresh bento from the central kitchen and filled the gap left by the last customer.
Scan to restock. Under five seconds.
No paper ledgers. No manual expiry checks.
Through the glass of the refrigerated case, Kimura watched the red light of the data terminal.
He remembered his own handwritten inventory ledger, every page full of cross-outs.
Every night after closing, he'd put on reading glasses, squint under a dim bulb, and check stock of kelp and soy sauce, line by line.
In this spotless hypermarket, they'd turned supermarket operations into a digital factory. Parts meshed with precision.
Their cheap, assembly-line fresh food was absorbing every cash-strapped city dweller who still wanted a decent life during the economic winter.
No, not "absorbing." Accepting. This warm, massive hypermarket was accepting everyone who longed for "decency."
He turned and walked toward checkout like a corpse.
All ten lanes were open.
Checkout was fast.
Customers handed over bills.
Because of the rounding policy, every item was priced in whole numbers. Cashiers returned a few large coins. Done.
The next customer's items were already on the belt.
Kimura stood there. He timed it: twelve seconds per transaction.
He watched customers with full carts. Watched this commercial machine — warm on the outside, precise as a clock inside.
The fists he'd clenched in his sleeves slowly loosened.
The rage in his gut — the urge to fight, to yell, to resist — dissolved into air against absolute strength.
He'd spent thirty years in front of those wooden shelves, surviving on neighbors' credit.
That way of life looked primitive next to this behemoth.
Kimura's shoulders slumped. His back seemed to age ten years in a second.
He turned and dragged his feet toward the exit.
On the glass wall by the exit, a new poster hung.
Now Hiring: Floor Manager with 10+ years of display experience. Excellent benefits. Includes S.A. Group regular employee pension coverage.
Kimura stopped in front of it.
The words "pension coverage" locked his eyes.
He stared for a long time.
Slowly, he raised his hand and took off his old hat. "Kimura Grocery" was printed on it.
His rough fingers rubbed the faded brim. He gripped it tight.
Then he walked toward the employee recruitment office beside the hypermarket.