Before Ryan could finish scratching his initials into the bottom of the accountant's catering adjustment form, the heavy, dull thud of a cardboard box hitting the laminate desktop rattled his wire pen-holder. A courier in a high-visibility jacket—sweating slightly beneath the chill of the evening office air-conditioning—did not even wait for a signature or a word of greeting, muttering an unintelligible apology before turning sharply on his heel and vanishing back toward the bank of lifts.
Ryan stared down at the parcel, his tired eyes blinking through the harsh fluorescent glare. The box was sealed with reinforced brown tape, bulging heavily under the weight of its contents. With a slow, reluctant sigh, he slipped a pen tip under the tape and sliced it open, pulling back the flaps to reveal a dense, industrial stack of fresh paper. They were event run-sheets printed on crisp, heavy stock, but every alternate column was meticulously translated into formal Japanese kanji—detailing minute-by-minute promotional schedules for a corporate launch he had never planned, set ominously within his exact hometown ward in Chiba.