Memo 07: (R1)Investigative! Our first lead.

Vendors display everything from spices that glitter like crushed gems, to skewers of roasted lizard meat sizzling over open flame, to trinkets carved from beast bone and enchanted stones that glow faintly under the torchlight. Some stalls are run by orcs with booming voices, some by sly goblins who flip coins between their fingers. The only outsider looking in was nagisa. 

The scents are overpowering: charred meat, pungent ale, incense, and the unmistakable stench of livestock. In the middle of this chaos, standing out like a chain restaurant plopped down in a bazaar, is Orc-a-Gobble.

The building is big, brash, and loud, with a crooked sign carved into the shape of a tusked grin. A massive painted orc face with its jaw wide open forms the entrance archway. Smoke rises from chimneys at the back, and the smell of fried meats and heavy gravies oozes into the street, making passersby glance longingly. Goblin waiters in greasy aprons holler at pedestrians, waving wooden menus. Inside, through the open doorway, the gang can already hear the rowdy laughter of soldiers, vanguard members, and merchants cramming

The district feels like the centerpiece of another world’s fantasy painting—yet Nagisa, looking around, can’t help but think: beneath all this color and noise, something rotten lingers. The shopping district still buzzed in Nagisa’s ears as she left Nateas telling him to stay out of sight. Behind and pushed open the swinging doors of Orc-a-Gobble, Veylstra’s most famous restaurant chain. The scent was the first thing to hit her—thick, roasted meats dripping with fat, tang of sharp spices, and an undertone of something bitter that clung to the tongue.

Inside, the interior was both gaudy and crude: The walls were plastered with banners, painted in garish greens and yellows, bearing the mascot of a smiling orc biting into a leg of some unidentifiable beast. Tables were rough-hewn wood, carved with bite marks and scratches, and each was surrounded by benches rather than chairs—as though diners were expected to eat like packs of wolves.

Overhead, lanterns of smoked glass burned with a faint orange light, giving the place a hazy, smoky atmosphere that mixed with the steam from sizzling plates carried out of the kitchen. The waitresses were mostly demi-humans and elves, dressed in tight, red-stained aprons that bore the Orc-a-Gobble emblem. They moved quickly from table to table, balancing plates of greasy slabs of meat, bowls of pungent stew, and mugs of frothing ale for the patrons.

Nagisa and Yuranu sat themselves to their table—rough wooden benches polished by too many patrons—A waitress approached the pair with a half-smile. Her steps were hurried, yet her hands trembled as she laid out menus written in the local tongue. Her eyes darted nervously to Nagisa and Yuranu. And then recognition flickered across her face—sharp and sudden. She froze. Her breath hitched. And in that single instant, the cheerful, forced hostess façade cracked. This girl—this waitress—was one of the captives. One who had been in chains beside them not long ago.

Her voice quivered, pitched low so only Nagisa could hear: > “...It’s you yuranu and um..”

Her eyes lingered on them longer than necessary. “I… I recognize you both,” she whispered under her breath, her lips quivering. “I was there… the cells… the same cages, remember? I saw you…”

Nagisa feeling elated seeing how well shes doing. while Yuranu leaned in with a curious grin, her eyes like razors trying to cut through the waitress’s words.

But before either of them could question further, the woman suddenly flinched—her whole body shuddering violently like a puppet pulled on invisible strings. The tray in her hands rattled so loud it drew nearby stares. Her eyes darted upward—not at Nagisa or Yuranu, but somewhere over their heads.

It was as if someone, or something, was looming.

Her voice cracked, forced into artificial cheer.

“Y-yes! What would you like to order today? May I recommend our spiced wyvern wings? Orc-ribs, half rack or full? Or… o-or…” Her hand clutched the notepad so tight her knuckles paled. Sweat ran down her brow, and her eyes flickered like she was begging them to stop asking questions.

Yuranu’s grin faded. her eyes darted around the restaurant subtly—up to the balconies, the long bar counter, the shadows of the kitchen doors. Someone’s watching her. Controlling her. Nagisa gently reached up, tugging at the hem of her apron like a little sister trying to get her attention. “Don’t worry,” Nagisa said softly, tilting her head up, her eyes firm but warm. “Calm down. Nobody here is going to hurt you. We’ll talk after your shift.”

The waitress’s wide eyes darted to Nagisa’s, searching, terrified, as if invisible chains were squeezing her throat. Nagisa’s voice cut through that grip like a whisper of freedom. Yuranu sat stiffly, watching the girl’s violent trembling. The way she flinched at every sound told Yuranu more than words could. Someone was watching. Someone had already warned her.

The waitress bit her lip hard, then nodded almost imperceptibly. “Y-yes… I’ll… b-be right back.” Her words cracked like glass. She scribbled quickly on her notepad, voice pitching high with false cheer.

“Yes, yes, understood. Two Akuas!”

And with that, she hurried toward the backroom, stumbling as though she were running from a noose tightening around her neck. She folds her arms and leans toward Yuranu, her eyes sharpened, the faint mischievous spark of a reporter’s curiosity sparking in her gaze. Nagisa: “In the journalism world, we call this scoping. You catch something off, you don’t ignore it. “Someone’s got her shackled, even in broad daylight. That means this whole place is under their eyes.”

She pulls Camera into her lap, angling the lens not at Yuranu but around the restaurant, letting her fingers gently trace its edge.  She lifts the camera, pressing her own eye against the viewfinder. But instead of just snapping pictures, she channels the new ability she awakened. The air around her feels tight, like the atmosphere before a storm, and the glass of the lens glimmers unnaturally.

Nagisa breathes slowly. The world blurs, then shifts. The surface of walls and bodies become see through as if they were transparent. Through the camera’s eye, she can see beyond surfaces—through tables, doors, and even flesh—like truths peeling themselves bare. Her brow furrows. She swivels the lens toward the kitchen. Shadows twist. She sees more than clattering pans—chains, faint glowing marks, and a pair of eyes in the dark staring back. She lowers the camera, lips pressing together. Nagisa (to Yuranu, quietly): “…They’ve got something hidden in this place. 

There!—her gaze locks.

The waitress, trembling, has her head bowed, hands knotted in front of her apron. Across from her towers a stocky orc, his tusks protruding like cracked ivory, his massive forearms braced against the wall as he bellows down at her. His voice doesn’t carry here in the dining hall, but Nagisa can almost feel the rumble through the lens. He points sharply, jabbing a thick finger toward the ground like he’s driving home some cruel command.

Nagisa adjusts Cameras angle, pressing closer. She follows as the waitress is directed towards a certain area in the restaurant, almost stumbling, disappearing out of sight toward the rear service hall. The orc walking right behind her. Nagisa sees him turn, grab a torch off the wall, and with the waitress march toward a heavy iron door plated on the floor. He wrenches it open, revealing a dark stairwell spiraling downward—stone steps slick with damp. With a grunt, he descends into the cellar, the door clanging shut behind him.

Nagisa lowers Cammy for a moment, eyes narrowed in thought. That door wasn’t on any customer tour. It can't be for food storage, not if they were this secretive. “This place has more than a kitchen,” she mutters. Yuranu leans forward. “What did you see?” Nagisa clicks her tongue, her journalistic instincts firing. Hidden basements. Intimidated staff. A frightened former captive too scared to even greet them properly.

Something here isn’t just shady—it’s rotten. Nagisa lowered Camera, her camera-eye still glowing faintly, and frowned. “Camera says there’s a veil—I can’t see past that cellar.” Her voice was clipped, irritated, like she’d just lost a lead.

Before Yuranu could reply, a new waitress drifted to their table with a carefully practiced smile. She held the tray a little too stiff, her steps too precise—like someone who had just been given a script. Nagisa immediately narrowed her eyes. “Where’s the waitress who seated us?”

The new waitress dipped her head coyly, avoiding their gaze. “Oh, her? She… said she’ll have to see you later.” She set down the akuas with deliberate calm, but her fingers trembled just slightly against the glass. Then she leaned in closer, lowering her voice. “It’s best if you leave now. Please. Before more of us get in trouble.”

Yuranu shifted in her seat, exchanging a quick glance with Nagisa. The words felt more like a warning than an offer of help. Nagisa tugged on her notepad, scribbling something without looking away from the waitress. Her tone stayed casual, but there was an undercurrent of steel in it. “Funny, that’s not what she told me herself. She said we’d talk after her shift.”

The new waitress froze for a heartbeat, her practiced mask cracking. Then she forced a laugh, high-pitched and awkward, and straightened. “People change their minds. Customers should just enjoy their drinks.”

Nagisa leaned back, tapping the lens of Camera with her pen. “Mm. Journalism has a word for this.” She looked to Yuranu, voice low. “Deflection.”.

Nagisa leans forward, her voice soft but stubborn. “Are you okay? You don’t seem like you’re fine.” The waitress forces a nod, murmuring in a cracked tone: “Please...just drink and leave. Don’t come back here again.” Nagisa’s brow furrows. “But what about our conversation at the end of her shift?"

The waitress cuts her off, her voice suddenly sharp as if rehearsed: “There won’t be one EVER. Now leave.” The weight of her words falls heavy. She doesn’t even wait for their response. Bowing slightly, she hurries off to another table, forcing herself into the motions of a waitress greeting new patrons. It was too obvious at this point—fear, and an unspoken eeriness—makes it crystal clear.

It’s then Yuranu notices it—the entire restaurant has gone still. Every fork lowered, every bite paused midair. All eyes, from patrons to staff, are quietly locked on them. The air feels staged, like the hush of a courtroom right before the verdict. Nagisa straightens, tugging Cameras strap higher on her shoulder. 

Yuranu leans closer to Nagisa, muttering under her breath,

“She’s terrified out of her skin. That ‘polite dismissal’ was basically a warning. If we stay, we’re not the only ones who’ll be in danger—she will be too.” Cameras lens clicks softly, adjusting. His voice is low, mechanical, but urgent: “The veil over that cellar isn’t ordinary."  Yuranu’’s tells the two it's layered magic, placed by a mirage mahouist. Something meant to suppress visibility. If they’ve invested in that kind of protection, what’s happening down there isn’t just shady—it’s deliberate.”

She offers the waitress one last look—half pity, half promise—then exhales through her nose.

“Let’s go.

Nagisa slowed her step just before the door, her instincts fighting her stubborn streak. She raised Cammy slightly, letting the second ability stir to life — the one that allowed her to see lies as colors dancing around people.

The waitress stood stiff, her hands wringing the cloth of her apron. And there it was: not the pale nervous yellow of embarrassment, nor the shaky blue of fear. No. This was red. A searing, toxic crimson that bled off her aura like warning flares. A pigment that didn’t just whisper "she’s lying"—it screamed danger. Nagisa’s throat tightened. The last thing that aura told her wasn’t about truth or falsehood. It was a single, blaring message: Walk away. Don’t dig deeper. Not now.

"In the journalism world, we call this a forced blackout. When every angle shuts down on you at once, something is being blatantly hidden.”

Nagisa’s lips curl into a smirk, her head still angled down so her eyes can’t be read. Cameras lens zoomed  “What are you thinking, boss?” Nagisa’s eyes flash, sparkling with that dangerous glimmer they haven’t seen in a while. She presses a finger to her temple, muttering with a thrill in her voice. “My first scoop… it felt just like this. That gnawing fire in the gut, the hunger you can’t put out. Like a baby latching onto its mother for the very first time—sweet, desperate, endless. That’s the taste.” 

“I’ll get to the bottom of this case,” she said, voice steady despite the storm in her chest. “I’ve got Camera and my memopad. I’m ready.” The words hung in the air like a promise, or maybe a challenge. Nateas said nothing. He only stared at her, caught between admiration and unease.

When something’s hidden, it makes me want to expose it!