I double-checked the address on my phone one last time, even though the signage in front of me was impossible to miss. Then I stepped out of the taxi, the soles of my shoes crunching on the gravel road.
The street was eerily quiet. No cars. No pedestrians. No one waiting to greet me. A strange unease settled over me as I clutched my acceptance letter. Did I get the time wrong?
I unfolded the letter, the one thing I’d been told to bring, and rechecked the details. Date, time, address. Everything matched. I was even five minutes early.
Well, might as well get on with it.
I walked to the entrance of the restaurant and peered through the window. The lights were off, and not a soul was in sight.
Straightening my shoulders, I lifted my chin and knocked firmly on the door. The sound barely echoed, and I hesitated. What if no one was close enough to hear? My knuckles stung from the initial knock, but I raised my hand again. Before I could torture them, the door swung open.
Standing in the doorway was a man I didn’t recognize. He wasn’t Chef Sakamoto: That much I knew. His salt-and-pepper hair was cropped close, and two heavy brows sat low over scrutinizing eyes. The harsh lines of his face deepened as he frowned, his scarred chin catching the light. He was dressed in all black: loose, baggy pants suited for a kitchen and a buttoned-up long-sleeve shirt that seemed out of place.
“Hi,” I began, offering a polite bow. “My name is Akiko Ono. I’m here for the apprenticeship.”
He didn’t respond, only stared down at me, unblinking.
“I was told to arrive at nine a.m. sharp.” I fumbled with the welcome letter and held it out. He snatched it from my hand without a word.
“I am Aoto Matsumoto,” he said at last, his voice cold and mechanical. “From here on, you will address me as Kanshisha-san.”
The title caught me off guard. Kanshisha. Overseer. Was he the manager of the apprenticeship?
“Any questions, problems, or needs you have, you will bring to me. Is that clear?” His eyes didn’t flicker with curiosity or warmth. They were flat, unreadable.
“Yes,” I said, my voice steady despite the unease curling in my stomach. “Where are the other apprentices?”
He ignored my question and turned, motioning for me to follow.
We moved quickly through the empty restaurant. The modern decor was stark, almost clinical, with evenly spaced tables and plain white walls devoid of art. It felt as unwelcoming as Kanshisha-san himself.
He pushed through a pair of swinging doors, leading me into the kitchen. The lights were off, but the gleaming stainless steel countertops and the spotless floors stood out even in the dimness. The air smelled faintly of cleaning solution, sharp and sterile. Along one wall were stoves and grills, while shelves of cookware lined another. A long prep table dominated the center of the room, its surface reflecting the faint light.
Goose bumps prickled along my arms. This was where I would train.
We didn’t linger. Kanshisha-san led me out the back door into a narrow space between the restaurant and a towering concrete wall. I craned my neck, my gaze following the wall to the gray sky. Barbed wire coiled along the top, matching Miki’s declaration that it looked like a prison.
Straight ahead were massive steel doors, weathered and foreboding, with intricate dragon etchings carved into their surface. They looked like they weighed a ton each.
Of course Kanshisha-san was taking me to meet the master himself. My heart quickened.
We crossed the path, the gravel crunching underfoot, until we reached the doors. Kanshisha-san pulled out a key and unlocked it. He turned to me, his eyes colder than ever.
I swallowed hard. His expression practically screamed disapproval. If I had to guess, he wasn’t thrilled about having a woman apprentice. I’d expected pushback. I was bucking centuries of tradition. But this man seemed like the embodiment of tradition itself.
He grunted as he heaved one of the steel doors open. He then motioned for me to enter.
I hesitated for a fraction of a second, then stepped through. The air felt colder and heavier. Behind us, the door slammed shut with a resounding clank.
Six weeks. That was how long I’d agreed to. Six weeks inside these walls, cut off from the world. I barely noticed my hands trembling as I clasped them together. My fate was sealed.
Before me sprawled the compound, like something out of a history textbook. It resembled a traditional palace from a time when Japan’s emperors ruled, complete with an arched wooden bridge spanning a narrow moat along the perimeter.
A moat. This place actually has a freaking moat.
Medium and small buildings dotted the landscape, connected by pebbled and stone walkways carved through manicured grass. Ishidoros, ornamental stone lanterns, rose from the earth lining the paths. Cherry trees stood scattered throughout, their branches heavy with pink blooms.
In the distance, I spotted a Zen garden and three-tiered red-and-black pagoda rising behind it. And beyond that, the Sakamoto residence loomed, its grandeur evoking royalty.
