The address on the assignment is a narrow house in a quiet ward, the kind with a kitchen light on at seven and a bicycle leaning against the fence. You knock twice. Through the glass you can see a woman at the counter, flour to her wrists, and when she turns, the chestnut knot of hair over her collar and the blue eyes are exactly the ones that have been signing your training files for six weeks.

She opens the door still holding a wooden spoon. The apron over her knit and denim overalls tells you more than her grey office suits ever did. For the first time since you met her, Chiharu Matsunaga has nowhere to hide.

She says it like a verdict, then her shoulders drop.

She steps back from the door, not to let you in, just to breathe. Somewhere behind her, an oven timer clicks off on its own.

Her chin comes up, all the office back in her face.