For the first time, Kenji’s mechanical movements slowed. His chopstick hovered in midair, and his jaw tightened. Finally, some reaction.
But that’s all it was, a reaction. He said nothing and didn’t even look my way. Not until lunch ended did he pull me aside.
“What were Jiro and Taka talking about back there? Did something happen yesterday?”
Now he’s interested.
“Nothing that needs repeating. Forget about it,” I said, turning to walk away.
Kenji grabbed my arm and jerked me back. “Hey, I’m talking to you. Are you getting back together with Jiro?”
“What? How the hell did you get that from anything I said?” I yanked my arm free. “And don’t ever grab me like that again.”
“Just answer the question,” he demanded, his tone sharp.
“I don’t think I will. Not with that attitude.” I hated fighting with him. It was exhausting. But his need to control everything about me was wearing thin.
Diplomacy, Akiko. Remember the game. Keep your enemies close.
I forced a smile. “I’m sorry, Kenji. I didn’t mean to snap. Can we talk about this later? Please?”
Before he could respond, Iron Face appeared. His gaze chilled the room into silence. Without a word, he turned, and we all followed. He led us to a clearing near the left side of the Sakamoto residence, a part of the compound I hadn’t ventured into yet.
In the center of the clearing were six metal tables, each holding a fish about two feet long. The fish looked odd, and as we got closer, I realized why. They were made of metal.
Iron Face began with a flip chart, revealing a diagram of a bluefin tuna.
“Today’s class is Zap Sakusen! We will learn the key cuts of a tuna.”
Interesting, but why the strange name? Operation Zap?
“This is a practice fish because a real bluefin tuna would be wasted on amateurs. These replicas have internal sensors to measure your precision.”
He flipped the chart again, revealing another diagram with four cuts highlighted. “Akami,” he said, pointing to the bright-red flesh along the sides. “Chutoro.” His finger moved to the area between the belly and the sides. “Otoro.” He tapped the belly. “And kamatoro.” The collar.
The cuts were straightforward, but his tone made it sound like we were preparing for surgery, not sashimi.
“Take your positions behind a table.”
Kenji took the table to my right. Jiro took the one to my left. “This will be fun,” Jiro said, grinning at me.
Kenji glared. And just like that, the tension doubled.
I stared at the fish; its lifeless glass eye and the hyperrealistic paint job were an odd combination. Four outlined cuts marked its body, each holding a plastic piece of fish. Beside it lay oversize tweezers and a small rubber mat. What had seemed like a teaching moment was something else entirely. No cutting, just plucking pieces from the fish.
Iron Face moved to Taka’s table and flipped a switch. The table buzzed ominously, a crackling hum filling the air. “Touch it,” he ordered, his stare locked on Taka.
Without hesitation, Taka tapped a finger on the table and immediately screamed, yanking his hand back.
“The tuna is attached to a conductive surface,” Iron Face said. “If you touch the table, or if your tools make contact with the table or any part of the fish aside from the piece you’re extracting, you will be shocked. Severely.” He moved down the line, flipping switches at each station as a low buzz filled the room. “A steady hand is the mark of a sushi chef. One careless cut can destroy hundreds of thousands of yen worth of fish. Your task is to extract the four primary cuts cleanly. Place each one on the rubber mat.”
Jiro leaned toward me, muttering, “This reminds me of that operating game where you yank out a funny bone with tweezers.”
“Except now it’s a fake fatty tuna piece,” I replied.
“But you still get shocked,” he added.
“Don’t listen to him,” Kenji snapped. “He wants you to screw up.”
