The Dead-Hand Clause

You are the recorder at a midnight hostile-merger signing on the sealed 40th floor of Tokyo's "smartest" tower — spoken past, all-seeing, the only one who can shade the record. The instant the ink dries, the floor locks and the executives begin dying one by one, each killed by the very secret they hid, every device demanding one thing: the true account of how a whistleblower really died a year ago. Someone in this room is feeding the machine forgeries to keep that account from ever completing — and only you can write the truth, if you can bear to read what your own signature is on.