“For Flamebound, of course.”
67
Miki
By the third night, the roar of the crowd had faded into background noise for me. Not for Ginji. He sat beside me, eating it up like he was the star of the show. I didn’t dare roll my eyes or let a flicker of disdain show. Instead, I clapped when he clapped, smiled when he smiled. Inside, though, I was scanning the crowd, waiting to spot Akiko and Jiro so I could finally breathe.
On the arena floor another J-pop performance was taking place, loud and glittery enough to make my teeth ache. The crowd loved it. I pretended I did too.
I tried catching Masaki’s eye, but he was stoic as ever, facing forward, never looking my way. This was the first time I’d seen him since last night’s show. Since then he’d been MIA. I had a new Chopman guarding my door, and he wasn’t as nice.
At least the chair trick Masaki showed me continued to keep Ginji out of my bedroom at night. But last night, he fought harder against the door. I wasn’t sure how many more nights I could hold him off.
I really hope Masaki is working on a plan to get us off this island.
After the performance, the lights in the arena dimmed. Ginji rose, microphone in hand, and the spotlight snapped to him. He held the pause long enough for the crowd to lean in.
“The final night of Nokoribi is upon us,” he announced. “I know many of you are sad to see it end, but remember”—he smiled, milking the moment—“we always save the best for last.”
A lone violin played in the dark, long notes stretching out. A spotlight cut through the dark, revealing two figures locked in a lover’s embrace.
The girl—I knew her instantly. Akiko, dressed in that ridiculous white chef’s dress, altered to be shorter and sexier.
The man beside her wore black, his mask curled into a devil’s smirk. At first he was just another Blade, faceless like the rest. But then I saw it—the frame of his shoulders, the way he stood. It was Jiro.
Was he now a Blade too?
The jumbotron flickered alive, flames bursting across the screen. A heart wrapped in flaming chains filled the massive display, the word Flamebound seared over it in gold. Names appeared beneath the burning heart, bold and shimmering:
Chisana Itamae—the Little Sushi Chef
Kuro Tate—the Black Shield
Ginji’s voice poured over the loudspeakers, spinning a story.
“Two souls, bound by flame. Lovers who should be together, yet the world conspires to tear them apart…”
All around me, spectators sat on the edges of their seats, leaning over railings, eyes wide, lips parted, utterly caught in the performance. I could hear sighs and gasps, see hands clasped as if watching a grand romance instead of a death game.
The worst part? It was convincing. Even with their masks on, the way Jiro gazed down at Akiko, the way she looked up at him—it looked real.
And then their masks touched in a staged, lingering kiss.
The crowd erupted, the arena shaking with cheers, the sound rolled over me like thunder. They weren’t watching prisoners anymore. They were watching idols.
Another spotlight flared, and the Chopmen stepped into view. Their hands were on Akiko and Jiro before I could blink, wrenching them apart.
Akiko clung to Jiro’s arm, her body straining against them, but they tore her free. Dragged backward, she reached for him, her fingertips grasping at air.
Jiro fought just as hard, his muscles taut, his hand stretching toward hers until the gap widened too far.
Groans, cries, even a few shouted noes from the stands. The crowd was caught up in the heartbreak of it, mourning the lovers as they were torn apart.
Ginji’s voice cut through the roar of the crowd, smooth and merciless. “But fate is cruel. Chains are forged, walls are raised, and even the strongest hearts can be sundered.”
A spotlight pinned Akiko. Another pinned Jiro. Chopmen held both of them in place at opposite ends of the arena. The crowd fell quiet.
The spotlights cut out. Ginji’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Will their love burn bright enough to find each other again… or will it be lost in the dark forever?”
