“Toma told me. He said a decision was made—Half-Plated have existed too long, and they’re… they’re doing away with it.”
“What does that mean?”
“We’ll be placed somewhere among the Leftovers. That’s what he said. I asked why not with the Silver Spoons, and he said they won fair and square. They were deemed free.”
“Makes sense. They were always positioned as the golden children of Chef Sakamoto. So we’re not free.”
“No. The rest are property of the Leftovers. And that now includes Half-Plated.”
Just then, more Chopmen appeared. One stopped at my cell and slammed the bars with an oversize tenderizing mallet, this one bristling with razor-sharp spikes. The clang echoed down the corridor like a warning bell.
“No talking,” he grunted.
Behind him, more pieces of property shuffled in. Cell doors slammed, one after another, as each person was shoved into the dark.
The roundup.
30
Miki
Of course the psychopath had a brother, and of course he was the one running this circus. Clearly the younger of the two, probably by a decade. After our brief introduction, the Chopman brought me to my room. For the sibling of a monster, he sure knew how to make his guests feel like they hadn’t been kidnapped.
The room they gave me was huge, tucked toward the rear of the house on the second floor, with a view of a small garden below. I tested the window. It wouldn’t budge. I checked the door, cracked it open. A Chopman stood right outside, unmoving. I wasn’t going anywhere.
The bedroom was easily the size of my entire apartment. A massive bathroom with a soaking tub. A walk-in closet packed with clothing, shoes, accessories—all cute, all totally my taste. The bed was one of those fancy ones with a roof overhead and a mountain of pillows. A fireplace, a stocked mini fridge, even a flat-screen mounted on the wall.
Did Akiko get a room like this? Or was this just for me? It felt personal. Like someone had taken the time to arrange it with me in mind.
Since I was trapped, I figured I might as well take a bath and make use of whatever twisted perks came with my imprisonment. The bathroom was stocked like a spa: expensive soaps lined up on the counter, glass bottles of scented oils arranged like they were on display, neatly folded towels soft enough to sink into. The tub itself was one of those deep stone ones you only ever see at fancy bathhouses.
I slipped into the water and let the heat unknot my muscles. For a moment, it was easy to pretend I was somewhere else, that I’d chosen this. That I wasn’t stuck on an island with strangers who thought they got to decide my fate.
Afterward, dressed in a fluffy robe, I padded into the closet and slid my feet into a pair of equally fluffy slippers waiting just inside. The place was ridiculous. Rows of clothing hung in perfect order, tags still dangling, everything brand new. Dresses, jeans, jackets… even a leather coat that probably cost more than my rent back home.
I ran my hand along a sleeve, checking the size out of habit. Perfect. I checked another. Perfect again. Even the shoes lined up along the wall were exactly my size, from sneakers to heels to boots. Had Ginji been expecting me?
My stomach reminded me I hadn’t eaten since I sampled endangered turtle. The mini fridge was stocked like a corner konbini—rows of canned tea, soda, iced coffee, energy drinks, even a couple of those fancy fruit smoothies in glass bottles. Neat little boxes of maki were stacked beside onigiri wrapped in crisp plastic, plus instant noodles, cup ramen, and a tray of sandwiches cut into perfect triangles. Chocolates tucked into the door, pudding cups, even Pocky.
I raided it without shame. Cracked a cold coffee. Piled together a tray—noodles, tuna maki, something sweet for later. Then I collapsed onto the couch with the whole spread balanced on my knees, like I was settling in for a movie night instead of a kidnapping.
I flipped on the TV, grateful for the distraction. A J-pop show lit up the screen—bright lights, a boy band dancing in sync, girls in the crowd screaming. I jabbed the remote, trying to change the channel. Nothing. Same show. Same song.
That’s when I saw him. The front man. Grinning, strutting, eating the camera alive. It was Ginji.
I froze mid-bite, noodles dangling from my lips.
Was Ginji the opposite of his sister? Or just another flavor of dangerous? Because no matter how plush the surroundings, no matter how good the food tasted, I was still a prisoner.
I kept eating anyway, slurping instant noodles and biting into a tuna maki roll, crumbs dotting my lap like this was some twisted sleepover. And in between bites I couldn’t stop thinking about Akiko. Where was she? Was she okay? Was she being treated the way I was or worse?
None of it made sense. Maybe this was how Akiko had felt the day she moved into the dorms for her apprenticeship. Normal on the surface, weird underneath.
There was a knock on the door. Before I could even swallow, it swung open and in walked Ginji. Naturally, it had to be the exact moment I had a mouthful of maki roll.
“Ah,” he said, pointing to the TV as he mimicked a dance move. “I see I have a new fan.”
I swallowed the roll, wiped my mouth, and pointed at the screen. “Are you seriously in a boy band?”
