The chaotic dinner drew to a close.
In any case, with the Oga family's only grandson insisting on it, no matter how many people objected, the wedding banquet the next day could only proceed as planned.
But Hashimoto Maya no longer cared about any evening banquet or whatever.
That night, after returning to his room, Hashimoto Maya took off his coat, and a folded piece of paper suddenly dropped from him with a patter.
He picked it up carefully and unfolded it. Inside were two lines of handwriting with no fixed form.
[Not bad. Didn't expect you'd come to Nagasaki too. We'll meet tomorrow and discuss it in detail.]
Hashimoto Maya froze on the spot as if he had been struck over the head with a hammer.
If someone else saw this strange handwriting, they might be unable to hold back a laugh and suspect some elementary school student had written it.
But Hashimoto Maya knew this was the disguised handwriting Irish usually used—writing that let those who needed to know recognize Irish's identity, while also making people unable to identify his handwriting through his usual, real script.
In short, this letter was written by Irish!
The thought flashed through his mind. Hashimoto Maya clutched that sheet of paper and felt as if he had seen the Grim Reaper's scythe.
There was no resigning from the Organization, no job-hopping, only dying in the line of duty. This was common knowledge.
And now, just as he had finally begun to adapt to his terrifying new superior, a ghost story descended: his former superior had come looking for him!
"'Not bad'? According to Mr. Irish's habits, shouldn't he have just written a threat like 'I'll kill you tonight' or something? ...This is too terrifying. He's already so angry he's resorting to sarcasm