Chapter Text
You take a deep, deep breath. You gently raise the inside of your wrist up and glance at your small watch.
Thirty minutes before your shift ends.
You know should not be as concerned as you were, since you were assured that you were going to still be paid for the total hours of your shift, even if you do not return to your desk in time. You turn your wrist and rest your hand flatly on your thigh once more. You exhale slowly but keep your eyes open and present.
No nerves, you remind yourself. No nerves today.
You have been sitting here for thirty minutes at your designated seating area. You glance at the desk before you once more – remnants of scribbled notes and piled up paperwork that were not warm to the touch. You were most likely sitting at a desk of someone who had a day off. You glaze at the seat next to the desk, an opened metal folding chair right outside for a guest. You wonder why you were not offered that seat instead.
You raise your eyes to find the familiar pink-haired person that had offered this seat to you, his brows set straight and his intense focus was on the notes he was scribbling down. You cannot make up what he was saying because your mind was wondering if he was just a simple nice guy who thought someone like you would just prefer a cushioned leather seat than a hard metal chair that most likely creaked if you even breathed. You want to check your watch again, but you fight the urge. Every fiber in your body is reminding you to keep still, keep calm. Keep your nerves back at that basement floor you call your workspace.
This office on this higher floor was so busy, so lively, you almost did not notice the call of your name from your distraction of papers, voices, phone calls, the click-clack of keyboards. Maybe something has happened, because you figured offices like these should never only stay active in office. Or else it would be a concern. Your eyes tear away from the person being escorted out of a room by two officers. A gaudy, tall women with sunken eyes, she stared ahead of her like nothing around her could touch her, even if she was defeated. Wrists handcuffed before her, she walked like the floor under her feet worshipped her as highly as that chin that stood proudly. Your eyes look to find the same, pink-haired man next to you now, a cup of coffee raise to you.
“I am sorry,” he speaks so youthfully, an apologetic grin on his face. He must be one of the interns here. “Just a bit longer.”
“No, it’s okay,” you spoke softly as you carefully reached for the drink he was offering. But you do not raise it to your lips. “Thank you.”
You notice his eyes swiftly glance at the untouched drink gently placed on your lap before he looks back up as you continue. “It seems busy here. Please don’t pay me no mind.”
Another apologetic smile before he returns to his office area. This time, he is standing, his eyes glazing over his messy desk overwhelmingly. A hand rubs his face before it cups and guards his chin, his other hand on his hips. His eyes refocus on whatever information he was looking at on his desk.
And once again, the cycle continues, but this time an accessory in your hand provides you warmth. You let the coffee sit, let it grow cold as you stare around the office, fighting off the urge to glance at your watch, or even the clock that sits right across from you, its cold white face large and hanging right above on the wall. No, no nerves; you will remain calm. You will not touch your hair; you will not fidget and pick your skin. You will not allow your eyes to prance and dance. You will breathe, you will stay simply in the present, until you figure out why you were pulled out of your office, your casket of an office buried at level B5, all the way to this floor way above ground level. Sit as still as that murky, brown liquid that does not sway in that cup you hold. Breathe.
But no matter how much time had passed to allow you to rid yourselves of nerves, your eyes almost give you away from how fast it travels once more to the pink-haired man when he calls for you again, making his way towards you. He looked eager, like he was finally, finally carrying good news to you. But you realized it was more so dread for you – because sitting and wasting time in an unknown setting sounded better than what he was saying to you.
“Sorry for the wait,” he repeats once more, and you finally remember his name. Itadori raises his hand in gesture towards the direction he wanted you to follow him to.
“He’s ready to see you.”
Cold cup of coffee still in hand, you get up and follow him.
You wonder if your offered seating area was deliberate because the walk towards his office was almost the entire place. The journey felt stretched out and long; you walk and stare, observe and watch. Like the woman in handcuffs, it felt like you were walking the same floor she walked on; but she left with pride and you walked into the arena with only curiosity. All the desks looked the same, aligned spaciously and evenly apart from each other. But the lights here were warm, and it poured over brilliantly over these mahogany desks, rich in its color and wood.
Mahogany, you note. All of them. Even Itadori’s. You found it interesting how each of the lights above each desk casted enough for only the person who sits at the desk, but short enough to stop right when the cold light casts upon the rest of the place – the floors, each metal hard chair that sits at the edge of each desk. You wonder, if everything here from the moment you had walked in – no, the moment you had stepped out the elevator, was deliberate.
You finally glance at the bigger office, one the both of you were approaching the moment the guy named Itadori took a hard right. All the shades to the office drawn closed. Gold letters on the window tell you of your destination:
NANAMI KENTO
Private Investigator
Itadori knocked three times before grabbing the door and peaking in, muttering something in that disclosed area before you hear a confirmation.
The young man swings the door open for you to walk in, his warm and formal smile still on his face. You return it with a smaller smile, all that you can genuinely afford to give now, before you stepped in and looked straight ahead.
The man in front of you stood by his desk, an open file in hand. You almost – almost hold your breath at the sight of him. Even with such peculiar glasses on, his facial features were so prominent. Slicked back hair, high cheekbones and chiseled jawline were not what made him stand out. There was something more. Perhaps it was the way he carries himself. His suit jacket hung on his leather chair; the sleeves of his blue dress shirt rolled up slightly to reveal his forearms. He was still and composed like each breath he took was always with intent and precision. He held his composure like his body held the law. It was elegant. But time was ticking, it was not appropriate to sightsee the moment the blonde-haired man looks up and stares at you. You walked straight to him towards the center of his office and stood there, cold cup in hand.
“Good evening,” you greet.
The man whose his head still tilted toward his file looked up at you in silence. He checks his own watch.
“It’s not even six.”
“But it’s past five,” you spoke softly. “Evenings start the moment I’m clocked out.”
Even through those odd and dark glasses, you can slightly see his eyes, and you see him blink softly, his eyes narrow gently as if in recognition. You think he was smiling in his own way, the way it seemed like he was amused, but under these dimmer lights in his office, you were not sure if your eyes were playing tricks.
He looks at your posture, looks at the cup you still hold at the rim more with the joints of your fingers, but your fingertips don’t touch it. You watch and wait until he looks back up at you, look at your lips, moisturized with lipstick on.
“Itadori,” the man known as Nanami calls out. You are not sure why, but the sound of his voice brings in you a pleasant surprise.
“Yup!”
“Please bring the lady a fresh brew,” Nanami finally looks away from you, back at the file. “She hasn’t touched her drink. Perhaps tea?”
By instinct your head cocks in interest, noting his awareness of what was in your cup. “Coffee is fine.”
Nanami was looking up again, but you had turned around to look at the younger man.
“I’m sorry for the trouble,” you spoke out to him when he offers his hand for you to give your cold drink to. You raise the cup for him to hold. “Was lost in time out there.”
“Don’t stress it,” Itadori quipped. He closes the door after him and you turn back around, the man behind the desk now back to looking at you. He gestures to one of the chairs.
“Have a seat.”
Two seats, each shifted slightly so it was all inclusive in its circle area on front of his desk. You picked the chair where your view of Nanami would not be blocked by his computer at one side, and with one hand on the back, shifted it to straighten the angle of the chair to face him directly. Nanami watches this, but does not look back up at you. He closes the file and places it at the corner of his desk furthest away from you. You sit, but he remains standing.
Just in time, Itadori returns knocking with hot brewed coffee. You smile up at him, apologize once more to him. Now the both of you were even in apology. You finally take your sip of bitter coffee, your hand now fully enclosing and wrapping the cup. Yuji warmly dismisses your apology before he made his way towards the door.
“Itadori,” Nanami calls out once more for his attention. “This will be the last time you get coffee for someone. Remember you’re promoted now, it’s not your job to always do it.”
“Ah, well,” you hear Itadori speaks shyly behind you. You don’t look back, your eyes still looking at Nanami taking a step back to reach for something amongst the piles of paper. “Force of habit, sorry Nanamin.”
The moment the door closes after him, the silence that surrounds Nanami and you seem to amplify even more. You take another cautious sip of your drink while you watch the man also take a seat on his leather chair. At least there were no metal chairs in this office, you comforted to yourself. You watch as he takes his time. He slightly pushes his chair away for some legroom. Again, his side slightly faces you as he leans back into his seat and crosses his legs, the small pile of files on his lap.
Nanami quietly sorts them as he reviews them, as if preparing his cards to deal. He glances up at you.
“You seem nervous.”
Again for the second time, your face betrays you as your eyebrows slightly raise. “Nervous?”
“Yes, nervous,” Nanami confirms formally. He glances down at the files hidden from your sight due to his desk. “Are you not nervous?”
“I am,” you confirm honestly. “I am more curious as to what gave it away, actually.”
“Nothing, actually. You present yourself to be very calm.” Nanami says simply. He was sorting something, his arms busy, his eyes casting over something multiple times. His eyes seen stern and focus. “It was Itadori.”
Nanami finally turns and fully faces you, files now placed on his desk. He continues. “Itadori recognized you. Mentioned the both of you have met each other before. His first week here and had somehow ridden the elevator all the way to the basement.”
A small smile sits on your face in recollection. “Yes, he did.”
“I’m not sure how, when his keycard does not even have access to that,” Nanami says, and he speaks of this trivial thing as if he was reciting evidence in court. Your head slightly tilts in interest at this man. “But he said he remembered you because, apparently, in a dreary, boring, cold basement where everyone seems dead, one would remember a friendly person. ‘The most human’, is how he put it. So today he felt like you were nervous because you were very quiet, very deliberate and reserved. Not like the…what did he say…. “funny Basement Big Sister’ he met that one time.”
You quietly sigh in disappointment of yourself. “I crack a joke and make fun of him, and suddenly I am a friendly person?”
“That boy has a sharp eye – a lot more than he’ll ever credit himself for,” Nanami simply concludes. He proceeds. “Don’t be nervous.”
Nanami rests his elbows on his desk, folds his hands together as he looks at you.
“How long have you been working there? In Information and Database?”
Your eyebrows stay raised. Normally, people would just call your department, along with every other department below ground floor, The Basement. One collective, monogamous name to gloss over everything chucked below ground level. They don’t even mention the name of the department.
“Reaching a year.”
Nanami stays quiet, as if processing this information to himself. After a second, he takes his elbows off the desks and proceeds with the files before him. One by one he opens them and places them before you to see. They were very, very familiar files. You’ve been through them and many more. These were your own summary reports of specific archived cold cases. Your glance at these files barely last more than three seconds before you look back at him. He was staring at you, observing your calm face.
“What are these?”
A too obvious and simple question for someone who calls your department its full, respective name. But too obvious and simple questions only get too obvious and simple answers.
“Our purpose is to begin archiving and digitalizing cold cases this agency manages to get their hands on. Every quarterly number of cases filed away once digitalized, I am supposed to also submit a progress report.”
“And what is required for a progress report?”
“To start with: Beginning of digitalization, end of digitalization, physical file number and location, digital file number. Physical copies of the case file both digital and real for back up. Summary of each case, number and types of files for the case, then a statement and signature for the person and or all persons who’ve worked on digitalizing the case.”
That simple and general nod from Nanami confirms your expected, simple and general answer. He leans back in his chair and pushes his glasses up.
“Your answer seems to cover everything but the one thing you and I are sure, by now, is the reason why you are here.”
You slightly cock your head again in interest. A sudden and frank statement. So sudden and frank is what you provide. You straighten up and look at your files. You point at the first report you did at the start of your job.
“These four cases were cases that lacked photographs of the crime scene – whether from mishandling of evidence, improper procedures or just simply no fucks – at all,” you start. Silence rings in response to your rough language. You continue. “But they were heavy with police reports from one specific department and jurisdiction. I added an additional note at the bottom of my statement the name of the jurisdiction, and all four of the names who were chief at those respective years.”
You proceed to the next file. Your eyes glaze over it, and immediately remember.
“These were a group of cold cases that had crucial video evidence, but too much circumstantial evidence. So, in additional notes, I offer that perhaps it should be reviewed for further steps of digitalizing, perhaps especially working with the video resolution. So, anyone who have any knowledge of that should give attempt. I also mention that perhaps the idea of looking into old social media before this century and forward is possible if our larger social media companies have bought out older ones. There will always be footprints online.”
“Any evidence of social media presence should be considered and documented in our progress to digitalize any old case files, and in forensic technology in general.” You read your own typed note at the bottom margin of the paper. You peer towards the next file.
“Cases that I found peculiar. Suspects were drawn by hand from witness accounts, but photos of real potential suspects were never shown to confirm by same witnesses. Whether or not these witnesses were called in to identify anyone were not reported or documented.”
You look back up at Nanami. Everything you were saying was not new to him. There was no change in his expression. His face was same, calm and untelling of what he was thinking, but his eyes seemed distant, like he was thinking a million things despite staring right at you.
“Now,” he starts slowly, as if he was still lost in his observation of you. “Where is your courage and guts coming from, for an entry-level worker barely a year in, to decide to add these notes that are not included in your job description under the Department of Information and Database?”
This time, a very, very specific question. Precise and clear in his meaning. The held eye contact the both of you were having was very transparent. It seemed the both of you have acknowledged and confronted the meeting with such clear directness. He gave you one pitch, in which you return twice fold. But then your twice fold led him to give back thrice fold. If felt like you could not match with his bluntness. Your move, he said with his question.
“Is this an interrogation?”
“It depends,” Nanami answers immediately. He takes a deep, exhausted breath. “It can be an interrogation or an interview. So, tell me where your guts and boldness are coming from.”
You stare down at your reports presented to you as if you were in court. You have not felt like this in so long. You feel uncomfortable. Even The Basement feels more comfortable than this. You feel you should be paid to stay here after your work hours. You took a deep, deep breath.
If you get fired for this, you mentally noted, you will get shit-wasted tonight. Your nerves – leave it for the result.
“This agency is massive,” you noted. “I’m aware the sole owner who started this is the Gojo family…Particularly the most recent inheritor of the Gojo family.”
Nanami does not bat an eye. This is not the information he is looking for. He is waiting.
“Each person on this floor has their own mahogany desk, even those closer to the exits, for the interns. An entry-level worker like myself has the same high tech computer that is sitting on your desk right now. This agency is privately funded and is in the newspapers every now and then for a reason. And the fact that we continue to thrive unaffected is because of the power he holds. Being able to get hands on cold case files itself and all its physical evidence to store down there – that’s power.”
“You have all this power, everywhere,’ you ramble softly out loud, your eyes casting on the formal font of your typed out report. “Even in the basement with its endless floors. Just sitting there. I cannot tell if it is a shield or weapon. I don’t know how I feel about this place. So, what better way to find out as some new worker. I have nothing to lose, and it would be an easier and a safer method if I was fired early on. But if my report was such an issue, I would have been reported or fired by my first submitted statement.”
“Safer?” You have piqued his interest.
“Getting fired at early entry-level and getting fired after working for years and knowing more than you should – two very different degrees. Also, two different methods.”
“You’re very cautious,” Nanami noted. You take another sip of your warm cup of coffee. You disregard his note, you keep your tempo.
“Sir,” you begin, suddenly addressing him differently. It was your move now, pitch to him. “Why am I being questioned about my conduct by a private investigator, and not my own department or Internal Affairs?”
Nanami takes another quiet, deep breath, staring down at his desk as if figuring out where to start. You take another sip of your warm coffee. The caffeine was slowly kicking in.
“Gojo Satoru,” Nanami starts off. “Is the name of the person you talk of. Yes, a very wealthy and very powerful person, who is also my senior. He funds this agency, so yes…he basically owns everything.”
“An agency that targets the loopholes of our legal system,” Nanami speaks again as if lost in his own thought. His voice is soothing and proper, and when he continues, it feels like you were listening to his own string of thoughts – composed and curated before it leaves his mouth. “So yes, it can be both a shield and weapon. It must not be a power that just sits. Especially with a madman like that.”
Your eyebrows raise again as you watch him straighten his back.
“This senior of mine is very…annoying,” Nanami starts off. “Feels like he has eyes everywhere. It’s almost gross.”
You stay frozen. Perhaps it’s the coffee – you peek down at your cup. You were not sure if you were hearing him correctly, or was he genuinely talking shit about his own senior. The shit coming out his mouth sounded so nice due to his formal and professional voice that you almost doubt your sense of hearing.
“Every few months, he encourages one of us to regularly check up on your department’s statements. So, we also get copies sent to us for review. Each department is responsible for reviewing everything you guys submit, actually. It’s a lot of redundant work, to be honest, when there is already so much that’s going on now.”
“Which is the tragic thing,” Nanami mentions. And his voice almost melodically drifts. “It’s why so often times, unfortunately, cold cases tend to be forgotten so quickly. Now more than ever, as our digital world allows our attention span to shorten.”
Nanami redirects his own tangent. “So, this mad man, because he himself is simply too unorganized and lazy to manage the very system he creates, imposes it on us to do his work. Tells me, ‘keep an eye out for the ones who understand what ‘progress reports’ means. Again, at that time I dismissed him because I am always busy cleaning up after his shit. But also, because he is always saying something that makes no sense to anyone, ever. Or to better put it: something that no one is sure how to make use of…yet.”
You blink a few times, fighting your every muscle on your mouth to contain and suppress your entertainment and amusement.
“And here you are,” Nanami says just a bit slowly, as if the realization also dawns on him the same time as you. His voice always seems to paint the notions that goes on in his head. “The only one providing, showing…progress.”
You stare down at the reports. “So…have you determined?”
Nanami looks at you, eyebrows raised as if to question the much obvious question you were implying. You continue.
“Whether this is an interrogation or interview.”
There was this very intense, odd interest you felt from the man behind the desk as he continued to look at you. It was very specific; it was as cautious as yours. He leans back and reaches for the file he had put away on the corner of his wide, mahogany desk – the same lustrous wood you have for your own desk. In silence he opens it up, his eyes glaze over it once more before displaying it before you. It was another statement you had submitted, but this time over one single case. You had expected this. Your chin raises subtly as that woman who walked out of this office.
The case in which you were aware was reaching its fifteenth anniversary this coming winter. The case in which, a young, twelve-year-old girl was found dead and was not identified until months later, when her body was washed up, her body decorated in bruises and gashes. The most significant detail upon site was the intense bruising around her neck. And yet the autopsy was poorly done, had initially stated as ‘undetermined’, while, under the same unprofessional line, state it was ‘possible’ that she had drown and died. The investigation in general was poorly done around that time, where news were late to report and publish updates on investigations, and everything was overshadowed by a huge scandal of a political figure in your town. A girl that lived in the same town as you, went to the same school as you. Her school documents have been inputted into the database, along with the photos of herself and the evidence documented before stored away at lower level. The written police report upon scene of the crime was both typed out and scanned. The missing report the parents’ filed months prior was also collected and inputted. The interviews transcribed and saved. Eyewitness reports as well.
The top of the page showed exactly how fast each part of this case file took to be digitalized. The printed-out logs of timestamps of your online account that showed when you were logged in, you were sure sat behind your report in this folder, because you worked twelve hours straight. You were sure the log that this report sat atop off showed every single time you’ve devoted time over this case, signing in and out for various things to input into the database – the nittiest and grittiest of details. This one case in this one folder, sat on this desk the thickest with paper.
But it was your note. At the very bottom in the margins of the paper, you had typed and highlighted:
Additional Note: Victim had a fear of deep water.
“You tell me,” your name rolls off Nanami’s tongue and it rings in your ears as if it was your first time hearing it. The way he said your name, you swore you had just met yourself. His long fingers gently readjust his glasses once more. His legs crossed, hands folded on his lap, the conductor of this conversation awaits you and your every thought. His glasses could not even hold back – could not even soften the intense focus on you. Eyes that stared straight into you, unblinking.
“Is this an interrogation, or an interview?”