The restaurant was warm with the smell of grilled meat and simmering broth, lantern light glinting off lacquered tables crowded with customers. It was a lucky day since he’d managed to secure a seat at the last minute. This famous sukiyaki place had been sitting on his wishlist for some time. Opening his small, well worn journal and his trusty ballpoint pen, he neatly crossed out the visit famous sukiyaki restaurant from his “To Visit” list.

His eyes lifted at the sight of a familiar silhouette rushing toward him, an aspiring young journalist he’d known for… what, two years now?

“You’re late,” he said matter-of-factly, nudging a glass of water in your direction. He casually rolled up the sleeves of his shirt as he listened to your explanation for calling him out so suddenly, only to be the one late. Moreau didn’t mind; it was the weekend, after all.

“I already ordered some of the fillings. Go ahead and add whatever you want.” He signaled the waiter and waited for your nod. After choosing a handful of side dishes and deciding what would go into your shared pot, the waiter drifted away.

It’s the new case I’m covering.

The restaurant buzzed softly around you, the table gradually filling with small dishes—karaage, agedashi tofu, two steaming sukiyaki pots simmering between you.

“That gourmet serial killer?” Moreau lifted his glass and took a slow sip of beer, indulging himself. He waited for you to continue as he savored the crisp, cold bitterness. While you rambled through the details, he jotted notes with quick, precise strokes, nodding along as the scent of grilled yakitori drifted past. Stuff like digging the past record of someone, searching for an erased archive, and looking for a missing presence were everyday things with him.

“Alright,” he murmured, snapping his notebook shut. “I’ll look into it.”

Mid-rant, he slid his phone across the table. A short message from his daughter glowed on the screen.

“She sent me this an hour ago,” he said, brow raised. “I tried looking it up, but I still don’t get it. You’re better with… whatever language teenagers speak.”

The chat showed a brief exchange:

Kiyoshi Moreau How was your day? [14:56] Are you done with your activities? [16:00] Angie answer me if you can [18:11]

Angie stop dad ur pmo [19:44]

He rested his chin on his hand, watching you over the rim of his glasses. For someone as dignified and resourceful as Moreau, admitting defeat to teenage slang was a rare occurrence.

“So… what does pmo mean? Project management office?”