Siam Plaza is not far. The building is a semicircular modern structure of steel, glass, and white concrete. It is mostly a business park with each office space big enough to comfortably hold a dozen employees. Suite 104 is on the ground floor, fourth office space from the south. A yakuza guard in business casual, dark shades, and a pistol in a shoulder holster stands outside the door. He nods as you approach.
"Yoshinori-san called ahead. You are clear to go in."
Inside the room has the bland corporate aesthetic hated for decades: cheap linoleum floors, white walls, office decor bought from a major supply store that sells in bulk cheap. Except where you'd expect offices there are drug stations. Making, testing, purifying, packaging, weighing, and storage. If you didn't know there had been murders here, you wouldn't have expected anything was much out of the ordinary. There are a few broken pieces of equipment, spilled drugs on worktables and floor with footprints, but nothing a half hour of tidying wouldn't solve. Most notably, there are no bullet holes and no spilled blood.