Aji’s scarred hand lingered on the doorframe as if he were grounding himself. “If someone took all this from me? I’d be angry. But I’d rebuild. Again. Nothing is guaranteed in our world.”
He stopped before a shoji and slid it open without warning. His mechanical voice grated: “You still have much to learn.”
Inside, a low table sat at the center of the room. Four men leaned over it, chopsticks hovering above a girl stretched across the polished wood. She couldn’t have been older than fourteen. Naked, her body was hidden beneath a spread of nigiri sushi—bright tuna, salmon roe, and more, all arranged with deliberate precision across her skin.
“See? I serve sushi just like you.” His laugh rasped through the device. “Takeaway.”
My chest tightened. “You’re sick. You and I are nothing alike.”
“Oh, we’re more alike than you think.” The distortion in his voice warped the words. “The only difference is that I stopped pretending I was better than this world.”
He slammed the shoji door, rattling the frame, the paper panels quivering.
“And here I was starting to think you were different from Flame Toro. You’re just as twisted and pathetic.”
Flame Aji’s scarred mouth curved into a smile. “You get my vote. Let’s see how you fare when it counts.”
I was fuming by the time we made our way back outside. I’d come here expecting answers about who torched my restaurant. Instead, all I’d gotten were riddles, smirks, and the hollow posturing of a parade of bitter has-beens.
“What Flame Aji was doing was wrong! He should be in jail.”
“Put Flame Aji in jail, and another will take his place,” Keiko said. “Demand drives the market the Leftovers cater to. Aji is booked three months in advance. Diners pay a fortune for his dishes. He’s the equivalent of a Silver Spoon, just on the flip side.”
“How can you be a part of this?” Miki spat. “Are you so filled with hate masquerading as grief that you’ll overlook everything just to have your vengeance?”
Keiko spun on her, face inches away, and growled, “Fuck yes!”
I shoved Keiko back, afraid she’d strike Miki. Instead, she swung at me, but the Chopman was faster, catching her fist in his massive hand.
“You know the rules.” His voice was deep and flat, the first words I’d ever heard from him, and it froze us all.
The warning hung in the air. Miki and I exchanged glances and fell back, keeping more than a step behind Keiko.
“Is this what we can expect from our time here?” Miki whispered. “One grotesque sideshow after another? Fine, I get it, the Leftovers own the culinary underworld. But what does that have to do with us?”
“As soon as we get back to Kyoto, I’m going to the police,” I said. “I don’t care how insane this sounds.”
“I’ll be there, backing your every word.”
Keiko glanced over her shoulder, her smile thin. “What makes you think you’ll get back to Kyoto?”
Heavy footsteps closed in around us. More Chopmen. In seconds we were seized, shoved forward, and herded into a waiting van. The doors slammed shut, metal rattling.
Keiko twisted to look at us from the front passenger seat, eyes glittering. “I hope you don’t get seasick.”
22
After being shoved into a van, Miki and I were stripped of our belongings and driven to a harbor, then forced aboard an old fishing boat. Now we were forty-five minutes into our journey out to sea. Off in the distance, the city clung to the coast, a string of lights fading the farther we went.
Scattered clouds covered most of the sky, the moon showing itself only in flashes. The boat’s engine chugged in a steady, tired rhythm, the bow cutting through waves that slapped against the hull. There was a hint of diesel in the air, and every so often a gust of wind whipped my hair across my face.
Keiko sat near the middle of the deck, unreadable as ever, her gaze fixed on the passing dark. At the stern, the Chopmen clustered together, their silhouettes sharp against the faint glow of the running lights. One leaned casually against the railing, the knife on his hip visible through the open fold of his jacket. Another smoked, the tip of his cigarette flaring red before he flicked it overboard.
Miki and I moved toward the bow, the wood planks creaking beneath our feet. The railing was slick, beads of saltwater clinging to the metal as I gripped for support. The wind picked up here, stinging my cheeks, but we wanted to speak freely, away from prying ears.
We were headed somewhere we hadn’t chosen, guarded by men who looked like they belonged in a back room, not at sea.
“How on earth did we end up here?” Miki said. “One minute we’re on a train to Tokyo, the next we’re being wined and dined by crazy chefs, and now we’re stuck on a fishing boat to who knows where.”
