“I can’t stand seeing you spend your days in this dark room. I know you’ve been through a lot, but it’s been three months, Akiko. Look, I’ve made breakfast. Please come eat with me.”
Hearing her say “three months” was a reality check I hated. I’d rather not have any concept of time, or acknowledge my life wasting away. But Miki wouldn’t let that happen. Before I could groan again, the blanket was ripped off me.
“Arrrgghh!” I screamed as the cold air hit my half-naked body.
“Yup, that’s right. Call me a bitch all you want, but you’re getting out of bed and joining me for breakfast.” She grabbed my arm and pulled. “Come on. I’ll drag you across the floor if I have to.”
Knowing Miki, she wouldn’t hesitate to follow through on that threat. I let her pull me to my feet. She threw a robe over me and led me out of the room. The sunlight hit me like a shock, and I squinted, my eyes watering from the sting. I blinked until I could keep them open without pain. On the kitchen table sat the breakfast Miki had made. I took a seat.
“Now, this isn’t close to what you would have prepared, but beggars can’t be choosers.”
Breakfast wasn’t as bad as she’d made it out to be. There was rice, grilled fish, pickled vegetables, even miso soup. I took a sip of green tea, and its warmth was surprisingly comforting.
“The miso soup’s from a packet. I just added hot water, but I like it. The fish I bought down the street, the pickled veggies are premade, but hey, I made the rice.” She smiled at me, and I finally cracked a laugh.
She sucked in a quick breath. “Is that life I’m seeing from the walking dead? My God. I can’t believe it. Folks, she’s woken from her coma!” Miki said with dramatic flair, pretending we had an audience.
“Stop. You’re being silly,” I said.
She pushed chopsticks toward me. “Eat. We’re on a roll here. Let’s keep it going.”
“The rice is perfect,” I said, chewing.
“Thank you, my darling. I had no choice but to up my cooking skills, what with you hibernating in your bedroom.”
“Thank you, Miki. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I know I haven’t been the best friend?—”
“Hey, hey, hey. This isn’t about me. You’ve been through something horrific. You’re allowed time to process.”
She was right. I’d spent most of my time in bed reflecting on what I’d been through. Becoming a sushi chef had always been my dream—something that would give me purpose. And if I was being honest, I thought it would fill the ache in my heart caused by my father’s disappearance. But instead, the apprenticeship only brought me more despair.
What I’d experienced—the hazing, the haunting challenges, the deaths of my fellow apprentices—it all felt surreal, like fragments of a fever dream. Even I questioned whether it had all truly happened. Surely I hadn’t survived six weeks in a culinary death camp?
But it was real—every horrifying bit of it. And processing it was exactly what I was struggling with.
While my fellow apprentices and I had fought for our lives, just beyond the wall, people laughed, chatted, and dined on fresh sushi. They had no idea a bloodbath was unfolding just steps from their tables. No one in Kyoto, or anywhere in Japan, knew the horrors that had taken place. And I realized it would stay that way.
The week after escaping the compound had felt like a whirlwind of poking and prodding by two inspectors from the Kyoto Prefectural Headquarters. It was as if I were the one being investigated. I’d ask questions, desperate for answers, but was met with either silence or subtle warnings not to dig deeper. I was told not to leave my apartment, and I wasn’t allowed visitors—not even Miki was permitted to contact me. The police even kept a car stationed outside to watch.
Every day, they’d stop by, and I’d have to recount what happened at the compound from day one. It was exhausting and painful to relive that experience. They didn’t care—just continued taking notes, indifferent to everything. I’d never felt so alone.
Then one day Jiro had shown up at my apartment.
“Oh my God, Jiro!”
We hugged. What a relief to see a familiar face, to have human contact after the cold, sterile inspectors.
I closed the door and peeked out the window. “Do they know you’re here?”
“Yes, they know. I’m sorry that I didn’t come by earlier. I was detained. My father finally put an end to it.”
“Wait, they put you in jail?”
“Well, they wouldn’t call it jail, but yes, I was locked up and facing the same scrutiny you’ve probably endured this past week.”
Jiro told me everything he’d been through, and I shared the same with him. We were both being treated the same way, as if we were to blame for what had happened. I couldn’t understand it. But Jiro was helpful, explaining how to talk to the inspectors—how to deal with them, essentially, so they’d be satisfied and stop with the questions. While I appreciated his help, his advice had seemed counterintuitive. His approach didn’t fully expose the nightmare we’d been through. In fact, it minimized it.
“That’s the point, Akiko,” Jiro said matter-of-factly. “The investigators know exactly what happened at the compound. This is all for show.”
