“This. This is their psychological warfare. Bad dubbing. They know I can’t turn it off. It’s like a car crash. A car crash where everyone sounds like they learned English from a cereal box.”

“That’s the scent of freedom, Misaki. Get used to it.”

Satō freezes. His eyes dart to the peephole. The fish-eye lens distorts her into a worried alien.

She holds up a piece of paper. The word is typed in bold, Comic Sans font. It looks like a ransom note designed by a child.

Satō looks at the onigiri. He looks at the contract. He looks at Misaki’s trembling, hopeful face.