Keiko rounded a corner, and we nearly walked into her. She’d stopped to let us catch up. Beyond her shoulder, the street exploded into color—narrow alleys strung with flickering neon signs, doorways no wider than my shoulders, each spilling warm light onto the wet asphalt.
Keiko’s smile deepened. “Welcome to the Golden Gai.”
This was Tokyo’s underbelly—equal parts grit and glamour. Six alleys in total. I’d heard of it but never been. Neither had Miki. We kept our arms hooked as we walked. Keiko stayed a few steps ahead, leading the tour we hadn’t signed up for.
“Is it safe here?” Miki asked. “I thought the yakuza hung out here.”
“They might,” I said. “Maybe the big guy will protect us.”
From what I knew, the place had been around for decades—famous for its tiny bars, which barely fit a dozen people. It was a magnet for artists, misfits, and the occasional celebrity hiding behind sunglasses.
The alley she led us into was packed shoulder to shoulder with bars and restaurants. Music spilled from every doorway—blues, punk, and jazz. Each bar flaunted its own eccentric theme: one a mock hospital, complete with nurses in miniskirts and an operating-table counter; another drenched in emo S&M; another decked out in Americana, all cowboy hats and twang.
We passed men in tailored suits, women tottering in glittering heels, and others in jeans and hoodies. Some people stared as we passed, sizing us up. Others didn’t even look.
Keiko veered left into an even narrower alley, where the bars were darker, seedier, their neon signs barely glowing. Miki and I traded a nervous glance but followed. Keiko stopped, looked back once, then pressed her palm against what I thought was just a thin wall between establishments. The panel gave a reluctant creak and swung inward, revealing a narrow unmarked doorway. Without a word, she slipped inside.
The space beyond was so tight we had to turn sideways to move. Even the air felt suffocating. My shoulder scraped cracked plaster, while the Chopman’s bulk pressed us deeper into the narrow passage.
Keiko pushed open another door, and we stepped into a low-lit room. I’d braced for a dive bar but found something curated, almost serene. Polished concrete floors. A handful of small wooden tables, each lit by a single hanging bulb. Dark paneled walls lined with shelves of sake bottles displayed like art. A narrow bar hugged the far wall—minimalist, clean, not a sticky surface in sight.
The tables couldn’t have seated more than a dozen, with a few more at the bar, but the place oozed that Tokyo mix of modern and traditional cool.
A short man emerged from the kitchen, parting a deep-red noren printed with stylized flames. The cloth swayed closed behind him as he hobbled forward, one foot dragging with a rasp that cut through the quiet. Long hair brushed his shoulders, and a black top hat sat low over his brow, making the whole scene stranger.
“Welcome to my place,” he said brightly. “Toro Omakase.”
He leaned in, and a sour stench rolled off his breath. That’s when I saw his eyes—pale, cloudy, washed of all color.
A low chuckle slipped from his throat. “At last, I meet the infamous Chef Ono.”
“Do we know each other?”
“We should have,” he said, tilting his head. “But fate had other plans.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, though I already knew. If I’d lost a challenge but survived, I’d have been one of the Leftovers.
“Wait here while I prepare.” He slipped back through the curtains.
I turned to Keiko. “What is this place?”
“It’s Flame Toro’s restaurant. Only the best of the best earn the title of Flame. They’re the lucky ones, allowed to keep chasing the dream of cooking.”
“Am I considered a Flame?” I asked.
“A Flame? You?” Keiko laughed. “You’re Half-Plated—neither here nor there. Barely worth remembering.”
“That sounds like an insult,” Miki said.
“It is. Now sit. Flame Toro wants to cook for you personally.”
I shot Miki a look.
She sighed. “I’m fine as long as it’s not poisoned.”
Flame Toro returned carrying a tray, his limp marked by the dull scrape of metal. This time I saw clearly—his entire foot was steel. He set two dishes before us, each holding three pieces of translucent sashimi, pale enough to catch the light.
“I call this Moon Turtle Sashimi,” he said with pride. “You won’t find this anywhere else in Japan.”
