Seven o'clock in the evening. When Shoma pushed open the door to the coffee shop "Tsuyukusa" in front of Seta-oka Station, the familiar dimly lit space spread before him. Four wooden tables arranged in a row. Behind the counter, the shop owner Kazuhiko Doshima was grinding coffee beans. In his sixties. Short hair streaked with white. A calm expression. For seven years now, he had been grinding beans in this same place, in the same way. "Welcome." Doshima stopped the coffee grinder and looked at Shoma. His eyes held no unnecessary prying. Only the gaze of someone continuing their work. "The usual, if you don't mind." "Of course." Shoma took a seat by the window. The cityscape outside was already dyed in the colors of dusk. The station-front street of Seta-oka grew quietest at this hour. Salarymen heading home from work, students. All hurrying along their paths. Shoma's eyes observed these people, but his actual consciousness existed only in this place. This coffee shop. Kazuhiko Doshima. The smell of coffee. And silence. This was the only place where Shoma could feel what "everyday life" truly meant. Not the ninth floor of Vectra Corporation. Not his apartment in Green Heights Seta-oka. Only here, in thirty-eight years of living, could he finally lower the tension from his shoulders. The blend coffee arrived. Four hundred fifty yen. Not made in advance, but brewed from beans ground this morning. That aroma eased Shoma's tension, just slightly. "Thank you." Doshima nodded silently and returned to the counter. Simply being there—that was enough. No unnecessary words were needed. Shoma wrapped both hands around the coffee cup and took a sip. The warm liquid passed down his throat. In that moment, an alarm sounded softly in his mind. At the edge of his vision. At the counter seat. There sat a man he did not recognize. Navy suit. Dark gray necktie. Early forties, perhaps. The same man he had passed in the hallway of Vectra Corporation during the day. At that moment, he had only seen his face. But that gaze had "confirmed" Shoma's existence. Shoma's expression did not change. But inside his mind, his alert level was rising. The man who had ordered the same coffee sat quietly at the counter, spreading out a newspaper. The Asahi Shimbun. The social section. His gaze was directed at the newspaper, but his posture, the angle of his shoulders, his breathing rhythm—Shoma perceived that all of it was performance. This man, like Shoma, was monitoring his surroundings. The man's eyes met Shoma's for just an instant. There was a smile. A friendly smile. But beneath it, Shoma could see deep calculation. The man stood. He folded his newspaper and slowly sat down across from Shoma. Every movement was without waste. The movements of someone who had received actual military training. "May I sit here?" The man—who introduced himself as Mizuno. His voice was low and measured. Perfect Japanese, yet with something faintly foreign in its tone. His age could not be determined precisely. Forty-three, perhaps, or forty-four, or possibly thirty-five. His face bore no expression. A face like a blank sheet of paper. "Yes." Shoma merely nodded. A single word of response. That was his rule. Mizuno sat across from him and offered a business card. Shoma did not take it, confirming it only with his eyes. Printed text alone. A name. Nothing else was written. No organization name. No contact information. "My name is Mizuno. I apologize for intruding on your time, but there is something I would like to discuss with you." Doshima placed a coffee cup in front of Mizuno. Even then, Mizuno's eyes did not leave Shoma. Silence. Shoma drank his coffee. The temperature. The aroma. The taste. All of it was normal. No toxins detected. But Shoma knew that the range of detection he could perform was dramatically limited. "Did you send the blank envelope?" In that moment, Mizuno's smile deepened. "That's correct." There was no change in his tone of voice. But something ignited in the depths of his eyes. The expression of calculations aligning perfectly. "Seven years ago, you were involved in a classified operation called the Mibu-no Incident with the Defense Ministry's direct secret unit—the Fourth Action Squad. At that time, you made a fatal decision. In that operation, the lives of multiple people were thrown into chaos. I am one of them." The moment those words entered Shoma's ears as language, his alert level reached its peak. The Fourth Action Squad—the special forces unit whose very existence was not officially acknowledged by the Defense Ministry. The Mibu-no Incident—the details of that operation were words that should not exist in this world. There should be no official record of it. All traces should have been erased from Defense Ministry official documents, from every classified file. Yet this stranger spoke of it so easily. "But I do not intend to blame you. Rather, I would like your cooperation. The records of the Mibu-no Incident were officially erased, but they still actually exist. We need to find those records and reveal the truth." Mizuno drank his coffee. Even that movement seemed calculated. "Why do you need that?" "I cannot tell you that yet." Yet. That single word revealed this man's true nature. He intended to tell him eventually. But not now. "However, there is benefit for you as well. That decision you have been forced to flee from for seven years. You can learn the truth of it. What actually happened in the past. What you truly did. And—" Mizuno paused for a moment. That silence was intentional. He was choosing his final words with care. "—who you truly bear responsibility toward." Those words stirred something within Shoma. An invisible tremor. It did not show on his face. But Mizuno must have sensed it. His smile deepened, ever so slightly. Doshima began brewing a fresh cup of coffee. That sound—the drip of the pour, the placement of the cup—filled this silence. "Please allow me time to consider. I will give you my answer later." "Then I will contact you again." Mizuno stood. Even that movement was graceful. Not a single wrinkle in his suit. His shoes were polished. This man had been preparing for this moment all along. "I will leave detailed instructions in your mailbox next time, not a blank envelope." With those words left behind, Mizuno departed. Shoma was left alone. A voice came from the counter. "Do you know that person?" Shoma shook his head. "No. We met for the first time." Doshima said nothing and began wiping another table. This man asked nothing. That was also why Shoma loved this place. Outside the window, the street in front of Seta-oka Station was beginning to transition into night. Street lamps illuminated. Neon signs of shops glowed with color. Shoma continued drinking his coffee. The blank envelope. Its true meaning—a warning not to reveal the main topic yet. The Fourth Action Squad. The Mibu-no Incident. Seven years ago. And now, the appearance of another who knew that name. Everything was beginning to connect. Calculations had already begun in Shoma's mind. Mizuno's true identity, his purpose, why he made contact at this place, why at this timing. But those calculations did not reach their conclusion. One crucial piece was missing. What did Mizuno know? And why was he trying to tell Shoma? And finally, what Mizuno had hinted at—"who you truly bear responsibility toward"—who was that? That answer had not yet come. Shoma quietly drank his coffee and continued gazing out at the night window.