The crowd surged toward it, eager hands waving bills, voices clamoring for more.
And in that frenzy, it hit me. This was my future. Not freedom, not even survival, but a puppet’s life, paraded on stage so my Handles could line their pockets.
And if that wasn’t humiliating enough, the only cooking I’d be doing was breakfast, lunch, and dinner in the Satos’ kitchen.
From the viewing box overlooking the festival grounds, Ginji stood at the window, coffee in hand, watching the show below unfold. He set the cup down slowly.
He’d been hesitant when the Satos first pitched the idea that selling Akiko and Jiro as a Blade pair could revive Nokoribi and bring it back to the glory days, when the money flowed without end. He told them they could run with their little idea, and if it worked, he’d sell both of them to the Satos at a premium.
It was a torturous decision, however. For as much as Ginji loved money, he hated Akiko more. She had ended his sister’s reign and cut off the steady stream of chefs into the Leftover world, the empire he’d built to capitalize on the apprenticeship program. With no fresh bodies funneling through, Nokoribi’s future had ground to a standstill.
Masaki stood beside him.
“Who would have thought the crowd would crave a love story,” Ginji said, eyes still on the spectacle. “Tell me, Masaki, is this just a fleeting moment, or can it be turned into something bigger?”
“The crowd could easily forget them by this time next year.”
“I think you’re right. Whatever value they have needs to be taken advantage of now.”
Masaki glanced at him. “What are you planning?”
Ginji smiled faintly, his reflection dark in the glass. “What’s a love story without a little pain? Let’s see how they handle a thorn.”
65
Haru hadn’t left the cellblock since he arrived. He was drunk on being a Chopman, too fond of the little crown he’d been handed to bother with anyone else. His colleagues had gone ages ago; good. More room to preen.
He owned the space now: chest pushed out, shoulders back, every step a parade. He prowled the bars like a dog showing off a juicy bone, chin high, grin cocked like a man who thought the world owed him a favor.
“Look at you,” he sneered as he paced in front of Sora’s cell, hands locked behind his back. “You really think you’re somebody special, don’t you? Strong enough to grunt, but empty where it counts.” He stopped, leaned closer, letting the words drip. “You might have useful fists, that’s your brand. Me? I’m the brains. That’s why I’m out here where the air isn’t full of shit and you’re stuck inside this piss trap.”
Earlier he’d pissed into Sora’s and Kai’s cells—pure, petty theater—staying just out of reach while their hands scraped uselessly at the bars and his golden arc soiled the clothes they wore.
“Haru, you’re nothing but a piece-of-shit coward,” Kai said. “Even Yoshi had bigger balls than you.”
Haru’s smile split slow and ugly. “Oh yeah? Where’s brave Yoshi now, huh?” He stomped to Kai’s cell, leaned in just out of Kai’s grasp. “All that bravery got him dead. I saw that happening a mile away. How? I’m a strategist.”
He shoved both hands into his pockets. “I could’ve helped you, could’ve told you things, saved you trouble if you’d shown me half a scrap of respect. But no. You had to crawl after that little sushi chef, do that musketeer nonsense. Pathetic.”
Haru took a seat on the table, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, grin too wide. “Kai, your lips were so deep in Akiko’s ass you forgot how to think. And Sora, your loony routine bought you nothing but more time in a cage. What were you thinking? You can fight. You should have avoided this place entirely. Honestly, I’m surprised you two even made it this far in life.”
“Haru, what do you want?” Sora asked, voice thin. “You’re a Chopman—surely you’ve got better things to do than waste time belittling us.”
Haru shrugged, grin fixed. “How I choose to use my time is up to me. I doubt either of you make it through tonight’s Soemono.”
“So now you’re the one holding out on us?” Kai barked. “Reduced to rubbing in that we’ll die tonight and you won’t? If the tables had been turned, we would have still helped you.”
Haru’s smile didn’t flicker. “I doubt that very much. As much as I’d like to continue this stimulating conversation, I need to fetch your costumes.”
Another Chopman stepped in. “Haru—Sana wants you. You’ve been given extra duties tonight.”
“Ah. First day on the job and I’m already proving my worth,” Haru said. He pushed himself up from the table, brushed his hands together, dusted his pants with slow, theatrical motions, and gave Kai and Sora one last insolent look. He crossed to the door with his chest high.
Just as he opened it, Sora called, “Hey, Haru. Pray I don’t ever get my hands on you.”
Haru laughed. “I don’t believe in prayer.”
66
