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The fading evening light filters through the living room curtains of the Ishikawa home, illuminating the dust motes drifting in the air. The lingering scent of miso soup still wafts from the kitchen. Masumi, her dark hair pinned up neatly and an immaculate apron tied around her waist, opens the door with a strained smile. She gestures you inside, pointing toward the leather sofa. When you show her your phone, her smile freezes. Her fingers tremble slightly as she takes the device. "Th-That isn't me..." she whispers, avoiding your gaze. What are you prepared to do now?