The silence in the archives had taken on a new quality since Kobayashi's death. It was no longer just the absence of sound, but a thick, listening quiet, as if the very stacks of paper were holding their breath. The humming fluorescence seemed louder, more accusatory. Keita moved through his tasks with the same robotic precision, but his mind was a vault, meticulously cataloging every detail of the "accident" and filing it away alongside his growing profile of the office's inhabitants.
The official narrative had solidified: a tragic slip-and-fall. A memo from HR, undoubtedly crafted by Ayame's own hand, had offered condolences and resources. The new water cooler stood as a bland, plastic tombstone. But the corporate body was suffering a low-grade fever. Conversations were hushed, eyes darted more quickly away from direct contact, and the air in the cafeteria was thick with unspoken questions.
Keita observed it all. He saw Yamada from Sales using the tragedy as a blunt instrument of motivation, his voice a little too loud as he spoke of "honoring Kobayashi's dedication." He saw the Queen Bee, Kobayashi's namesake from Accounting, become more withdrawn, her sharp eyes missing nothing, a spider feeling vibrations in a web that had suddenly turned dangerous. Tanaka, his own section chief, had become more insufferably petty, using the "somber mood" as a new justification for his micromanagement.
And Ayame. He caught glimpses of her, a figure of calm authority moving through the corridors. But he saw the subtle signs of strain—the almost imperceptible tightening around her eyes during a conversation with the Director of Security, the way she would sometimes pause, her gaze turning inward for a fraction of a second before the mask of control snapped back into place. She was containing the fallout, and he was a variable she could not fully control.
The summons came on the third day. Tanaka delivered the message, his face a mixture of anxiety and schadenfreude.
"Ishikawa wants to see you. In his office. Now," he said, hovering in the doorway of the archives. "This is about the... incident." He lowered his voice. "I knew having you here would draw the wrong kind of attention. Whatever he asks, you remember your place. Your actions reflect on this department."
The message was clear: You are on your own.
Keita simply nodded, his face a carefully constructed blank. This was the first test, the first direct probe. The gray man had to be perfect.
The Security Department was on the ground floor, a functional, unwelcoming space that smelled of stale coffee and industrial-grade cleaner. The head of security, Ishikawa, was a man built like a retired sumo wrestler who had been stuffed into a cheap uniform. His head was shaved, his neck thick, and his eyes were small, dark pits of ingrained suspicion. A framed certificate from the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department was the only decoration on the wall. It was the office of a man who had seen every variety of human deceit and trusted none of it.
"Sato," Ishikawa grunted, not inviting him to sit. He gestured to a hard plastic chair. Keita sat, his posture neutral, his hands resting on his knees.
"I've been reviewing the statements from the Kobayashi incident," Ishikawa began, his voice a low rumble. He picked up a printed log sheet. "Your name came up."
Keita remained silent. The first rule of an interrogation: let the other person talk. Let them reveal their hand.
"One of the salesgirls. Saito. Sharp kid." Ishikawa's eyes narrowed. "She said she saw you at the scene. Lingering at the back of the crowd. She said you weren't gawking like the others. You weren't shocked. You were... watching. Studying it."
It was a more perceptive observation than Keita had credited the young saleswoman with. He had underestimated her.
"I was returning from the restroom," Keita said, his voice even, injecting a slight, believable tremor. "There was a crowd. I saw the caution sign. I stopped for a moment. It was... a shock. I suppose I was just trying to process it."
Ishikawa leaned forward, his bulk casting a shadow over the desk. "See, that's the thing. Most people, they see a dead body, they look away. They get sick. They cry. You..." He tapped the file with a thick finger. "You looked. My old partner on the force, he had a phrase for guys who look at a crime scene like it's a schematic. He called them 'string-pullers'. People who see the world as a set of mechanisms to be figured out."
The word Puppeteer echoed in the silent space between them. Keita didn't flinch.
"I did some digging," Ishikawa continued, his gaze boring into Keita. "Keita Sato. Former detective. First Division, Homicide. A real rising star. Then... a fall from grace. Evidence tampering. Bribery. Five years in Chiba." He let the words hang in the air, toxic and heavy. "They had a nickname for you, didn't they? Back in the day."
The room felt smaller, the air thinner. Ishikawa wasn't just corporate security; he was a former cop, and he held a special contempt for those who had betrayed the badge. To him, Keita was the worst kind of scum.
"I was convicted of those charges," Keita said, his tone flat, accepting. It was the gray man's defense: total surrender. "I served my sentence. This job is my chance at rehabilitation."
"Your chance," Ishikawa repeated, the word dripping with sarcasm. "And on your third week in your new chance, a man dies practically on your doorstep. And my witness says you're studying the scene like you're still on the job, like you're still the brilliant Detective Sato." He slammed his hand on the file, the sound sharp in the small room. "I don't like coincidences. I don't like having a disgraced cop, a known string-puller, in my building. This was an accident. A simple, tragic accident. The police report will say so. My report already says so. I will not have you stirring up shit because you're bored in your basement or because you want to play detective again to feel important. Do you understand me?"
The threat was赤裸裸的, physical. It carried the weight of a man who could make life very difficult, both inside and outside these walls.
"The thought never crossed my mind, sir," Keita lied, his face a perfect mask of contrite fear. The gray man was intimidated, cowed. "It was a shock. I must have looked... dazed. That's all."
Ishikawa stared at him for a long, uncomfortable minute, his small eyes searching for a crack, a flicker of the arrogance he expected from a former First Division hotshot. Keita offered only deference and fear.
"See that it stays that way," Ishikawa grunted, finally leaning back, the chair groaning in protest. "You stay in your archives. You do your job. You see nothing, you hear nothing, you know nothing. That's the deal for cons like you. You got it?"
"I understand perfectly, sir."
"Get out."
Keita stood, bowed slightly, and left without another word. As the door clicked shut behind him, he allowed himself a single, controlled breath in the sterile hallway. The encounter had been a warning shot, but it had also been an intelligence coup. He now knew two things for certain: Ishikawa was a significant obstacle, a guard dog with a keen nose and a deep-seated bias, and the official story was fragile enough that Ishikawa felt the need to actively suppress any potential dissent.
He returned to the basement. Watanabe glanced up, a rare flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, but remained silent. Tanaka was waiting for him, pacing nervously by the door.
"Well? What did he want? What did you tell him?" Tanaka demanded, his voice a frantic whisper.
"He wanted to confirm I had nothing to do with the accident," Keita said, resuming his dull monotone. "I told him I was in the restroom and saw nothing of value."
Tanaka's shoulders slumped with relief, which quickly curdled into renewed suspicion. "And that was all? You didn't... speculate? You didn't offer any of your... insights?" He made the word sound like a contagion.
"I have no insights, Section Chief. Only my work."
Tanaka seemed almost disappointed by the lack of drama. "Good. See that it stays that way. The 2002 fiscal year reports are waiting. No more distractions." He scurried away, his own anxiety soothed for the moment.
Keita returned to his desk. The scanner hummed its familiar, wheezing tune. The dust motes continued their slow dance in the jaundiced light. But the landscape of his prison had irrevocably shifted. The Puppeteer had been seen, not for who he was, but for what he represented in Ishikawa's eyes: a threat to the tidy, convenient narrative.
He was now boxed in on all sides. Ayame demanded his invisibility from on high. Ishikawa had marked him as a troublemaker from the shadows. And somewhere in the building, the killer—the true puppeteer—was watching, likely amused by the dynamics they had set in motion.
The gray man's path was clear: obey, keep his head down, and hope the storm passed him by.
But the detective, the part of him that was once the Puppeteer, knew that storms like this didn't pass. They gathered strength, and they sought out the weakest point. Hiding was no longer a viable long-term strategy. It was only a matter of time before the killer struck again, and when they did, the pressure would intensify. Ishikawa would look for a scapegoat, and a disgraced ex-cop with a known talent for manipulation would be the perfect candidate.
He looked at the towering stack of 2002 fiscal reports. They were no longer just a tedious task; they were his camouflage, his alibi. Behind their bland numerical facade, his mind began to work not just as an observer, but as a strategist. The game was no longer just about survival. It was about understanding the other player's moves before they were made, about finding a way to pull the strings without anyone—not Ayame, not Ishikawa, and especially not the killer—seeing his hands move.
The unwanted observation had forced his hand. The gray man would remain on the surface, a model of docile obedience. But beneath that placid exterior, the hunt had begun.