When I emptied the contents of the envelope, I let out a sigh. A power of attorney, a complete set of employment documents, a copy of an employee ID card—and a transfer confirmation for a 2 million yen investigation fee. (Another big case.) My name is Segawa Kaito. Twenty-three years old. My profession is corporate investigator. Most people probably don't understand what a "corporate investigator" does. Simply put, I'm hired by companies to infiltrate them as an employee and investigate misconduct from the inside—embezzlement, information leaks, fraud. It's different from being a detective. I can operate legally by filing the proper notification under the Detective Business Act. However, I only gather evidence; I have no arrest authority. I use a false name and work as an ordinary employee while picking up information without anyone knowing. That's the job. It sounds impressive. But the reality is a dull, lonely profession built on lies and infiltration. The place I'm in now is the fifth floor of a mixed-use building in Nishi-Shinjuku, Shinjuku Ward—"Corpo Nishimura." Our office: Velt Research. The sign outside says "Velt Consulting." If people knew it was an investigation company, they'd stop coming. From the window, I can see the high-rise buildings of Nishi-Shinjuku. The gap between those glittering towers and this shabby office is somehow amusing every time. On the edge of the desk sits a nameplate with the name of our representative, Dojima Tetsuya. Dojima was a detective in the Metropolitan Police Department's Second Investigation Division before founding this company eight years ago. He's a man with an old-fashioned sense of justice—his catchphrase is "We protect the truths society couldn't." He's on an extended business trip now, so no one's in the office. This case, I'm handling alone. I read the request letter from the envelope again. Client—Nagase Foods Co., Ltd. Vice President Nagase Mamoru. Nagase Foods. Annual revenue of 142 billion yen, 3,800 employees. A major food manufacturer that distributes frozen foods, retort-packaged foods, and seasonings to supermarkets and convenience stores nationwide. Their corporate motto is "Bringing peace of mind to the dinner table." Their headquarters are in a building in Nihonbashi, Chuo Ward, Tokyo. I smiled wryly. (A company that sells peace of mind, but harbors anxiety internally. That's pretty ironic.) The request is simple. There's apparently an internal whistleblower in the Quality Control Department reporting raw material falsification. They want me to investigate whether that report is true. Starting tomorrow, I'll infiltrate Nagase Foods under the name "Seno Kaito" and work as a new employee in the General Affairs Department on the tenth floor. I looked at the last line of the request letter again. Client: Nagase Mamoru. Vice President. ...Why would someone inside the company hire an external investigator? Why not use the police or a third-party agency? A small doubt formed, but I set it aside for now. I prepared for the next day and turned off the fluorescent light. By the way, one of those lights has been flickering. It's been three weeks since I decided to ask Dojima to replace it. --- The next morning. The sky over Nihonbashi in Chuo Ward was lightly overcast. The Nagase Foods headquarters building was eighteen stories tall. As I approached the glass doors of the main entrance, they opened automatically. The first-floor reception lobby had a showroom displaying their own products. Retort curry, frozen dumplings, dashi stock—packages lined up neatly on shelves. The logo "Bringing peace of mind to the dinner table" was plastered across the entire wall. Kaito thought to himself. (But how do you actually guarantee peace of mind?) I picked up my employee ID at the reception desk and took the elevator to the tenth floor. The General Affairs Department floor was an open space with about forty employees at their respective desks. "You must be Seno-san, we've been waiting for you," a senior colleague said, handing me a stack of documents. "[gentle]Could you help us organize some documents today?" "[serious]Yes, thank you for having me." As the new employee Seno Kaito, I bowed my head. I'm honestly not confident whether my appearance reads as a new employee. I'm 170 centimeters tall with a slender build. Black short hair with a slight natural wave and a bit of frizz. Deep brown eyes—I think they're on the larger side. Though people sometimes say "your eyes don't smile." I have a small dimple at the corner of my mouth, so I can manage a decent smile. Today, instead of my usual oversized gray hoodie, I wore a plain navy suit and white shirt. I hope I look at least somewhat like a salaryman. Sitting at the desk and helping organize documents, I kept my eyes and ears moving. Listening to the employees' conversations. Talk about lunch, weekend plans, work updates. But there was one thing that bothered me. The seventh floor never came up. The Quality Control Department was never mentioned. Other floors were discussed normally, but not that one. And then there were internal calls from the Quality Control Department. When a general affairs employee picked up, their voice would drop. Quiet enough that the person next to them couldn't hear. I opened the memo app on my smartphone and made a brief note. "No mention of 7th floor. Internal calls: hushed voices." In the afternoon, I pretended to go to the restroom and went down the stairs. To the seventh floor. The entrance to the Quality Control Department had an IC card reader next to the doorknob. But that wasn't all. Next to the IC card reader was an additional numeric keypad. (...Double lock.) I kept my face neutral while observing the door. The tenth-floor General Affairs Department had no such equipment. Would a normal company's quality control department really need this level of security? A department managing raw material inspection data? (Something's off.) Without letting anything show on my face, I returned to the tenth floor. I memorized the building's layout with my body. First floor: reception and showroom. Seventh floor: Quality Control Department. Tenth floor: General Affairs and Human Resources. Fourteenth floor: employee cafeteria. Sixteenth floor: business planning office. Seventeenth to eighteenth floors: executive floors requiring a special card key for the elevator. The vertical structure of power was literally reflected in the building's height. --- At lunch, I went to the employee cafeteria "Nagase Dining" alone. Fourteenth floor. I grabbed a tray, got in line, and took the daily special. 480 yen. Today it was grilled salmon, miso soup, and two small side dishes. Not bad. Then I looked for a seat. The cafeteria was crowded with about three hundred employees. Window seats, middle seats, back seats. All occupied. I walked slowly through the aisles holding my tray. Oh, there's one free—someone sat down before I could. I kept walking. ...How about over there? Taken again. After circling the same route three times, I finally noticed that the window seat I'd spotted first was actually empty and sat down. It had been open the whole time. I sighed at my own dullness, without telling anyone. I picked up my chopsticks and ate the salmon while observing the cafeteria. Employees with smiles, employees with downcast eyes, moments when voices suddenly dropped. People who lie always have something off. Their gaze, their tone of voice, their hand movements. It's my job to naturally pick up on those things. Suddenly, my eyes went to a bulletin board in the hallway. Near the cafeteria entrance. A black-and-white photo with the heading "In memory of founder Nagase Yoshiaki." A man with a warm smile was pictured. My hand stopped for a moment. I don't talk about my father. But—when I was ten, he said he was "going to work" and never came home. They said it was an accident. But something felt wrong. The timing of when adults stopped talking, the moment my mother's eyes wavered—young me saw it all. I remember it all. I want to know the truth. That's all. That's all I've ever been driven by. I didn't let any emotion show on my face. I ate the salmon silently. But I couldn't quite take my eyes off the founder's photo. --- At 6 PM, I left work without incident. I took the train to Shinjuku. Changed from the Yamanote Line to the Sobu Line and got off at Nishi-Shinjuku. I climbed the stairs of the mixed-use building and opened the fifth-floor door. The office was quiet. The fluorescent light was still flickering. As always. I sat at the desk and opened my laptop. I typed up a report for day one. ・Quality Control Department, 7th floor—IC card + numeric keypad double lock (no such equipment on General Affairs floor) ・Zero mention of 7th floor among employees ・Internal calls from Quality Control Department: tendency to lower voice when responding The data was thin. It was only day one. But the sense that (this level of security isn't normal for a regular company) was definitely there. I took a canned coffee from the refrigerator. The non-bitter kind. Dojima only drinks bitter black coffee, but I prefer the sweet stuff. I pulled the tab and looked at the request letter again. Client: Nagase Mamoru. Vice President. What would Dojima do? Probably tell me "Don't rush. Move once you have data." But what would I do? (Investigating misconduct at a company where a million people eat every day, in a situation where I can't consult anyone. I'm crazy.) I took a sip of the canned coffee. Sweet. I made a plan for the next day. Confirm internal call records involving the seventh floor and Quality Control Department. Find employees I can make contact with. Get a closer look at the seventh floor's movements. I closed the laptop and turned off the light. --- Before leaving, I decided to check the building one more time. I went back to the Nagase Foods headquarters and headed to the elevator hall on the first floor. I pressed the up button and stepped inside, reaching for the close button. That's when I heard a voice from outside. "[surprised]Oh! Wait—please!" Just before the doors closed, a foot and both arms full of documents pushed through. I reflexively pressed the open button. The doors opened. The seventh-floor light was on. "[surprised]Oh...sorry, I'm carrying so much stuff." A young female employee. She was holding a stack of documents in both hands, honestly obscuring the lower half of her face. As she stepped into the elevator, she pressed the first-floor button. I said nothing. Just one thing—I confirmed it. Her employee ID at her chest. Quality Control Department. Arima Sakura. I kept staring straight ahead at the doors until they closed. (Quality Control Department—seventh floor. An employee who passes through that double lock every day. That stack of documents...analysis data or something? Why is she carrying that much when leaving work?) My observational instincts automatically engaged. It might be simple overthinking. But—this case wouldn't end as a simple investigation. I swallowed that premonition without changing my expression. When I left the building, the lights of Nihonbashi in the night flickered in the distance. The wind along the river gently rustled the edge of my necktie. I left it as it was and started walking toward the station.