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“125 thousand.”
Kirishima’s jaw dropped: not to a full “oh my God,” completely in-awe look, but to a subtle “are you fucking kidding me?” This wasn’t a rare occurrence for a print-run meeting, but it was still notable. After all, the rest of the room had the same look on their faces.
The orator of this horrendously low number was a newbie in the Sales department, and despite being fresh out of college, he looked like he was in his late thirties. Kirishima had already forgotten the guy’s name, but he had a grand idea of his character. In his first unsupervised meeting, he made an incredibly bold and, in Kirishima’s opinion, idiotic play. But, then again, he thought that of all of Sales.
After a beat of silent awe, Kirishima hit the table with his fist, rising. “Are you out of your mind? I won’t accept anything below 300 thousand.”
The newbie flared his nostrils, joining Kirishima’s stance. And— what balls he had!— sneered, “Hah? I believe you’re the one who's lost it, Kirishima-san. This magaka has no published books, no fame, and no following. It’s not gonna perform well in the market, period. I won’t change my stance.”
This dumbass… Kirishima squinted at him and shouted across the circle of tables, “What the hell do you know about the market!? 300 thousand.”
“125 thousand!”
“300 thousand!”
“120 thousand!”
“300-fucking-thousand.”
The mousey representative from Printing chirped in: “How about 190 thousand?”
The enraged two barked back in unison, “Way too high!” “Too low!”
Kirishima sighed. This isn’t going anywhere. “280. I’m not going lower.”
The newbie pounded his fist into the table with every syllable, his steel eyes piercing into Kirishima’s and his deep voice into Kirishima’s eardrums, “I’m not leaving this room until we fucking print one hundred twenty-five thousand copies!!” Out of breath and huffing, he slammed back down into the office chair.
When Kirishima went to open his mouth in retort, he couldn't find the words. Oh… Kirishima’s face glowed red. What the hell… And, for whatever ungodly reason, Kirishima began to think that the pissy look in his pickle face and his arms tight across his chest and the way he puffs hair away from his eyes in rage was very, very cute. He also sat, covering his blush with his hands. What the hell is wrong with me?
Isaka took this moment of silence to insert his own bad opinion: “How about 200 thousand as a compromise?”
“NO!” They both shouted. Although, the idea of meeting in the middle seemed very appealing to Kirishima at the moment. Maybe, one day, he would act on it.