Shoma returned home from the Tamagawa River at dawn and showered. Seven thirty. The same time as always. The same motions as always. But the blank envelope was corroding that peace. The blank envelope, locked away in the hidden safe. The angle of its crease. The Fourth Tactical Unit's protocol. The connection to a division that should have vanished seven years ago in the Mibu野 incident. Shoma skipped breakfast and changed clothes. Black suit. Simple tie. The appearance of a security consultant. But internally, his alert level was rising. Akasaka TSK Building. Twelve stories above ground, fifteen years old. At the entrance, he passed through IC card authentication and biometric verification. A ritual performed many times each day. But today felt different. The expressions of people working in the hallway seemed subtly altered. No—it was because Shoma's vigilance had sharpened to a fine edge. The Vectra Corporation floor on the ninth level. About thirty employees were already at work. Desks lined the open space in the center of the floor, with six private booths along the walls. Shoma's seat was at the window's edge. A position where he could see the entrance. He powered on his computer. Checked his email. Nothing urgent. An ordinary Monday—no. Not ordinary. The morning the blank envelope arrived. The internal phone rang. A name appeared on the display. Makino. His supervisor. "Good morning," Shoma said, picking up the receiver. "Osaka, come here now." Makino's voice was clipped, emotionless. This was always his tone. Shoma stood from his desk. The hallway at the back of the ninth floor. The passage to Makino's private office was a place almost no one visited. It was separated from the sales department, wrapped in silence. Shoma stood before the door. Without knocking, he opened it. Makino's private office—a narrow room adjacent to a windowless conference room. Documents were arranged neatly on the desk. Files were color-coded. Pens stood at attention. Nothing superfluous. The air itself felt cold. Makino was forty-eight. Short hair. Black-rimmed glasses. Expressionless. From beyond the tower of documents on his desk, he stared at Shoma. His gaze was cold, as if appraising merchandise. "Sit." A command. Shoma lowered himself into the chair. Two meters separated the desks. Across the table, they faced each other. "The warehouse district in Motomachi, Yokohama," Makino began, his eyes never leaving the documents. "A physical security assessment for a certain company. There's suspicious activity. Identify the infiltration route and submit a vulnerability report within three days." The moment those words reached Shoma's ears, a warning sounded in his mind. Three days. Not impossible, but an abnormal deadline. Normally, such projects required one week for preliminary investigation, three days for on-site assessment, five days for report preparation—thirteen days total. Three days was nearly physically impossible. Which meant the client had requested the timeline knowing it would be compressed. There was urgency. Something hidden in the background. "Understood," Shoma said. But beneath his tone lay questions. Makino would have sensed them. Yet he said nothing. "I'll give you the materials later," Makino said, his face unchanged, turning a page. "Begin the on-site investigation tomorrow. You're familiar with the location of the Yokohama Motomachi warehouse district." "Yes." "The client company's name is none of your concern. However, there's a possibility the police may move in. If that happens, report to me immediately. To me, before the police." The possibility of police involvement. Those words elevated Shoma's vigilance further. In normal security diagnostics, the relationship with police was minimal. But if the company was hiding something—if the request was merely a pretext—the situation was different. "Understood." "That's all." Makino tapped the documents on his desk with one finger. "Go." Shoma stood and left the office. It happened immediately after. As he moved down the hallway, he passed an unfamiliar figure. Early forties. Navy suit. A face he didn't recognize. No Defense Ministry badge. No Vectra Corporation employee ID. No visitor's pass. But that man's eyes caught Shoma for just an instant. It was a gaze of confirmation. Eyes that knew Shoma. Or eyes that knew what Shoma was. The eye movement of a professional evading gunfire. The tense stare just before pulling the trigger. Shoma didn't break stride, heading back to his desk. But his mind was organizing the situation. Who was that man? Not a Vectra employee. Certainly not. Then someone Makino had specially admitted. He'd been heading toward Makino's office. Which meant a person connected to Makino. And he'd confirmed Shoma's identity. The white envelope. Delivered yesterday. The Fourth Tactical Unit's protocol. Today's unnatural assignment. The three-day deadline. The client company's name kept hidden. The possibility of police involvement. And the mysterious man. That gaze confirming Shoma's identity. Points were becoming lines. Lines were becoming a surface. Shoma returned to his desk and faced his computer. On the surface, he was handling work methodically. But his thoughts were elsewhere. Yokohama, Motomachi warehouse district. He confirmed the location. About one hour and twenty minutes by car from Seta Hill. A cluster of warehouses over fifty years old. Most now vacant. Once storage facilities for trading companies. Shoma pulled out a notepad. He wrote "Makino." He wrote "Mysterious man." He wrote "Yokohama assignment." He wrote "Blank envelope." He drew lines connecting each. No certainty yet. But something was definitely moving. The Mibu野 incident. Seven years ago. Its shadow was beginning to corrode the present. Shoma checked his watch. Ten thirty in the morning. One hour until lunch break. In that time, he would organize his thoughts at the basement-level restaurant "Ajidokoro Okame." Daily set meal. Eight hundred fifty yen. That was Shoma's thinking space. Ten thirty-five in the morning. Shoma scanned the documents on his desk and saved them to a file. In another tab, he displayed satellite imagery of the Yokohama Motomachi warehouse district. Building layouts. Surrounding terrain. Infiltration routes. He constructed multiple simulations. But alongside this—a small dissonance was growing silently. Why now? Why had the blank envelope arrived now? Why had Makino assigned this case without hesitation? Why had the mysterious man needed to confirm Shoma's identity? Everything was connected. Everything was calculated. And Shoma was inside that calculation.