In early June, Tokyo's rainy season arrived right on schedule.
The overcast sky was like a filthy rag soaked full of water, hanging heavily over their heads.
Rain washed the streets without end, and the air carried a dampness so stifling it was hard to breathe.
In weather like this, even breathing seemed to carry the smell of mildew.
But for certain people inside Bandai Headquarters, what was even more suffocating than the weather was the coming storm.
Outside the first-floor lobby, several black Mercedes-Benz luxury sedans cut through the splashing water and pulled up one after another.
The doors opened, and Richard led a joint team from PricewaterhouseCoopers and McKinsey briskly through the entrance.
More than thirty people, all dressed in dark bespoke suits, carried heavy combination briefcases in their hands.
Expressionless, their gazes were as cold as executioners about to carry out a death sentence.
Dozens of polished leather shoes struck the gleaming marble floor in neat, synchronized clicks. Every step seemed to stamp directly on the hearts of Bandai's employees.
Yamashina Makoto had been waiting by the elevators for some time.
The once-arrogant president of Bandai now stood with his back slightly bent, his face plastered with an almost fawning smile. Like a lowly greeter, he respectfully ushered Richard and his group inside.
Once the joint team moved into the executive offices on the top floor, they skipped all hollow pleasantries and seized control of the finance department and the core archives with thunderous force.
The dual-track audit was launched across the board.
Bandai's remaining conservative executives had all shrunk back at their desks, pale-faced and scarcely daring to breathe.
Anyone who hesitated, tried to argue, or refused to cooperate had a pre-prepared lawyer's letter, stamped with an official seal, slapped onto their desk by one of