Chapter 1 — Shrimp Street Without Name

The container yard at Nam Can port smells of machine oil and melted ice. Hai Yen got out of the car, zipped her windbreaker up to her neck even though it was already sunny, then walked straight towards the row of refrigerated containers lined up like steel coffins. In her hand is a plastic-wrapped file with the red stamp on the top corner of the Southern Food Safety Certification Center - where she has worked as a traceability inspector for nearly four years.

The shipment subject to inspection, number DH-0417, twenty tons of frozen white shrimp exported to Osaka, was returned by the Japanese side because of suspicion of detecting chloramphenicol residue exceeding the allowable threshold. This type of antibiotic has been absolutely banned in aquaculture for export for more than a decade, but some people still secretly use it because of its cheap price and quick treatment. A returned shipment is not rare, but this batch caught the special attention of Hai Yen's superiors, because it came from one of the largest exporters in the region.

She stopped in front of the third container from the top of the row. On the steel wall, the words painted in white stand out: OCEAN FISHERIES GROUP. Below is a symbol of a stylized wave embracing the letter D, a logo she has seen hundreds of times in newspapers, on billboards along the highway, and on frozen factory worker uniforms. But standing here, under the harbor sun, the distance between her and that sign was only a few steps, Hai Yen felt something tightening in her chest.

Ten years ago, this same company bought most of the ponds and export licenses of the Kenh Ba cooperative, just a few months after that cooperative collapsed because of another chemically contaminated shipment, another case, another man taking the blame. She took a deep breath, counted silently to four like an old friend once taught her to keep her heart rate, then walked over, reaching out to shake hands with the man waiting next to the container door.

"Is Ms. Yen from the certification party? I'm Dat, in charge of morning shift quality." The man was in his forties, wearing wet rubber gloves, with a booming voice like an acquaintance receiving the inspection team. “Would you like to come in and see the profile first or the goods first?”

“Profile first.” Hai Yen pulled out a pen and opened the pad of paper. “I need the original antibiotic residue test results of this batch, traceability documents from the farming area, and the freezing log.”

Dat nodded and led her into a small cabin next to the container yard, where an old ceiling fan whirred overhead. He pulled out a neatly folded stack of papers from the drawer and placed them in front of her as if he had prepared them in advance, just waiting for someone to come and ask to see them.

Hai Yen flipped through each page, her eyes quickly scanning the columns of numbers. The test result card shows the date of sampling, batch code, antibiotic index - all are below the allowable threshold, exactly as the company declared when shipping the goods. But when she went to the document to access the farming area, a detail made her hand stop for half a second: the farming area code read "KB-07", along with the farming household's name "Ba Sau Farm".

KB. She had seen those two letters too many times in the past to consider it a coincidence. Channel Three. But she didn't reveal anything on her face, just asked in the monotone voice of a professional who is used to asking emotionless questions.

"Which area is KB-07 farming area? The company's farming area map does not show this symbol."

"Ah, that's just the internal code. We've gathered some of the old ponds since they were new login, haven't had time to change all the codes on the new system." Dat smiled, not looking at all wary. “If you need me to look up the original map, let me call the farming area planning department.”

“No need to rush. I'll take notes and see later.” Hai Yen drew a thin line on the edge of the page, where the code KB-07 was, then turned to the freezing diary. Temperature, time, cold storage lot number — everything matches standard procedures. If you just look at the documents, no one can find the error.

But Hai Yen doesn't do this job just to look at papers.

She stood up and asked to come in and take samples directly from the container, instead of just comparing the results that the company had already submitted. This is the inspector's right when auditing a returned shipment, but not all companies happily agree. Dat paused for a beat, short enough that someone not paying attention would miss it, then nodded.

“Okay, sister. Let me ask someone to open the container.”

Inside the refrigerated container, cold air blew out as soon as the steel door was pulled open, bringing with it the characteristic fishy smell of frozen shrimp mixed with the plastic smell of stacked cartons. Hai Yen put on gloves and pulled out the sampling kit: sterile bag, stainless steel tongs, code sticker. She randomly selected three boxes in three different positions in the container - one near the door, one in the middle, one close to the innermost wall, where the temperature is most stable and also where it is difficult for people to swap samples if they have fraudulent intentions.

“Did you take the sample from there too? We already have samples stored outside the office, so you don't have to worry." Dat stood outside the container door, his voice was still warm but there was something more urgent than before.

“Samples are saved for comparison. The sample I took today was for independent testing.” Hai Yen did not look up, her hands still quickly picked each shrimp into the bag. “The audit process requires that, Mr. Dat knows that.”

She labeled it, wrote the time, signed it, and then left the container. The three bags of samples were neatly placed in the private cooler she brought with her, which no one in the factory was allowed to touch but herself. That is the first principle she learned when entering the profession: the sample is taken by herself, kept by herself, and sent by herself, without going through any intermediaries from the party being inspected.

When she turned back to the container yard, a pickup truck painted with the Ocean logo had just arrived and parked not far away. The person who stepped down was a man in his fifties, tall, with neat silver hair, and a crisp white shirt even though he was standing in the middle of a dusty port. Dat immediately stood up straight, his voice quiet.

“The president came to check the goods.”

Hai Yen didn't need to ask to know who it was. She saw that face on the cover of a local economic magazine, in an interview titled something like "the person who revived the shrimp industry after the crisis". Dang Quoc Bao, chairman of Ocean Group, walked towards them with the slow gait of an acquaintance being given way by someone else.

“What's going on that requires the inspector to go to the yard?” Mr. Bao asked, his voice gentle, his eyes glanced over the cooler in Hai Yen's hand and then stopped at her face for exactly a second, as if trying to remember where he had seen her.

“I independently checked the returned shipment, sir.” Hai Yen replied, using the same neutral form of address that she always uses with strangers at work. “This is a mandatory process when there is a complaint from an import partner.”

"Good. Just follow the correct process, be as transparent as possible for my company.” Mr. Bao smiled, the smile of someone who has practiced in front of the mirror countless times. “If you need anything else, just let Dat know, or you can meet me directly. Dai Duong has nothing to hide.”

If she heard that sentence from anyone else, Hai Yen would probably just nod and let it go. But from the mouth of the man standing in front of her, it fell into her ears like a new layer of paint applied to an old wall, thick enough to cover the crack but not enough to erase it. She nodded, did not respond more than necessary, then asked permission to leave so she could send samples to the central laboratory before the refrigerated vehicle departed.

On the way out of the port gate, she sat quietly in the car for a while, both hands on the steering wheel but not starting the engine. She pulled out her phone, reopened the photo she had secretly taken of the traceability voucher, zoomed in on the farming area code KB-07 and the name "Ba Sau Farm". Ten years ago, her father — the head of Kenh Ba cooperative — signed and approved dozens of export tickets with similar codes, before it all collapsed in a trial that lasted less than two weeks.

She called her superiors, briefly reported that she had taken an independent sample, and arranged to send the results within five days according to standard procedures. Not a single word in that call mentioned the words Channel Ba. That was the first choice she made since returning to this land: keep quiet, continue working as a normal inspector, and find out the rest herself before telling anyone else.

The car rolled through the port gate, the morning sunlight shining through the windshield blinded her for a moment. Hai Yen squinted her eyes, looking towards the rows of low corrugated iron warehouses stretching to the water's edge, where ten years ago used to be the boundary of Kenh Ba cooperative. Now, everything has a different name, a different logo, a different story about the person who "saved" an entire shrimp farming area from bankruptcy.

She didn't know how much of that story was true. But she knew one thing for sure: the three bags of samples sitting in the cooler next to the passenger seat would give her the first answer, and if the numbers on them didn't match what the company had declared, she would have no choice but to move on, even if that path led straight to the things she'd been trying to bury for a decade.

The phone in her pocket vibrated with a text message. Strange number, name not saved. Just one line: “Welcome back, Miss Yen. Long time no see."

Hai Yen looked at that text for a long time, her finger hovering over the screen. No one here knows that she is Mr. Do Van Tien's daughter. No one, except her mother. Yet that message called the exact name she was using to hide herself, in the tone of an old acquaintance waiting for her to recognize who they were.