She pressed play.
He turned. A woman in a neon-yellow vest was pointing at his backpack. He looked down. The zipper— chakku in that weird borrowed-English way—was wide open. His wallet, a crumpled manga volume, and a half-eaten onigiri were all visible to the world. chakku! tsuiteru!!
He zipped it shut, bowed a quick thank you, and ran. Inside the dimly lit offices of Mirai Productions , Kaito slid into his chair just as the clock hit 9:01. His boss, a volcanic man named Director Ono, glared at him from across the room. But Kaito just smiled. He was used to the glares. What he wasn’t used to was the small, folded note now tucked under his keyboard. She pressed play
Kaito—meet me at the old Fuji TV building. Midnight. Come alone. It’s about the 1997 tape. —S. He looked down