We skirted past the festival grounds, where hundreds of people drifted between stalls offering food, crafts, souvenirs, and more. From a distance it looked like a local fair. Beyond that, the island stretched out—green and lush, the air so clean that every breath was a burst of energy.
I was struck by how beautiful this place really was. Even Jiro looked in awe, his eyes fixed on the island around us.
We rode along the path until it opened onto a sprawling villa, its white walls gleaming in the sun, a turquoise pool glittering out front.
“Is this where everyone attending stays?” I asked as I stepped out of the cart.
“The visitors stay in the hotel.” Naomi gestured toward a cluster of towers rising in the distance. “The villas are reserved for Handles.”
We stepped through the double doors, and a rush of cool air greeted us.
The villa was gleaming marble and polished wood, sunlight pouring through tall windows that overlooked the pool and the sea beyond. A chandelier caught the light overhead, and the faint scent of flowers lingered in the air.
After days in stone cells, the sheer contrast made me dizzy. Jiro, who had grown up with wealth, wasn’t as dazzled as I was. His eyes weren’t wide with wonder—they were narrowed with suspicion.
“We need to separate you two while we get you ready,” Naomi said. “Akiko, come with me, and Jiro, follow my husband.”
Naomi led me to a quiet corner of the villa and into a bedroom with an attached bath. “Everything you need to bathe is in there. We’re on a schedule, so don’t dillydally. I’ll be back shortly.”
As soon as Naomi left, I stripped down and stepped into the shower. Steam rose around me as warm water pelted my skin. I hadn’t had a hot bath since Kyoto. The heat sank deep, loosening muscles that had been locked tight for weeks. Dirt and sweat swirled down the drain, and with it some of the weight I’d been carrying.
For a moment I closed my eyes and just breathed, pretending I wasn’t in a stranger’s villa, pretending I wasn’t part of Nokoribi’s death matches, pretending I hadn’t just been bought. It was almost enough to make me forget. Almost.
As much as I didn’t want to stop, I kept Naomi’s warning in mind. I soaped up, scrubbed, and shampooed as fast as I could.
Wrapped in a fluffy towel, I stood before the bed, staring at my outfit and mask. They’d been laundered, scrubbed clean of dirt and blood. The sight was a wake-up call—a sharp reminder that I wasn’t on some all-expenses-paid holiday.
Naomi returned not long after I finished dressing, true to her word. Her eyes swept over me, and a satisfied smile tugged at her lips.
“You look marvelous,” she said, as though I were a mannequin she’d styled.
She plucked a crystal bottle of perfume from the dresser, uncapped it with a soft click, and dabbed a drop behind each ear and on my wrists. The scent was sweet and expensive, a fragrance that didn’t belong on me.
“Perfect,” she murmured, stepping back to admire her work.
She picked up my mask, holding it as if it were delicate. “Come now, I’ll help you put it on.”
She pressed it gently against my face and stepped behind me, her fingers brushing my skin as she worked the buckles. Then, almost absentmindedly, she began to hum.
The tune froze me in place. It was soft, lilting—a song I hadn’t heard since childhood. My mother used to sing it while combing my hair after a bath, the notes rising and falling with each stroke. For a fleeting moment, the warmth of those nights flickered through me.
“Are you now my Handle?” I asked. The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Her hands stilled on the buckle, as if she were truly considering it. “Would you like me to be?”
I froze, unsure how to respond. Did she expect me to answer?
Naomi finished with the strap and gently turned me to face her. She stepped back, her smile blooming wide before she let out a squeal, the sound bright and maternal.
“My, you’re too perfect. They’re absolutely going to love you.” She handed me my knives.
I followed Naomi back into the large living room where Arata was waiting. He rose to his feet when he saw me, a broad smile spreading across his face as he began to clap.
“Incredible.”
Jiro appeared from a hallway already dressed in his chef’s costume—black, with yellow and orange flames licking up the fabric. His mask bore a devilish smirk, the curve of the lips eerily like his own when he smiled, one corner higher than the other. The mask itself was black and white, trimmed with gold.
Arata motioned toward him with a flourish. “May I introduce to you… Kuro Tate—the Black Shield.”
