Haruto sprinted up the narrow stairwell of an old apartment building, his footsteps echoing in the dim corridor.
He skidded to a stop in front of door number 03 and knocked urgently, his fist thudding against the worn wood.
The door creaked open to reveal a man with green hair, his expression lazy and amused.
"Chill out, Haruto. We're not going anywhere, man," Arataki said with a raised brow, eyeing his friend's frantic demeanor.
Haruto pushed past him without a word, his face set with a grim seriousness.
"I need to tell you something," Haruto said, his voice low but tense. "It's an emergency."
Arataki chuckled, still assuming Haruto was exaggerating.
"What? Someone died?"
Haruto shot him a glare before stepping inside the cramped apartment. The stale scent of cigarettes and instant noodles hung in the air.
Old Futto and Enji were huddled around a laptop on a rickety table. The screen glowed with a livestream—a sickening display of human trafficking in real-time.
