“Miki!” His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “Open the door, sweetie…”
A pause. Then softer, almost coaxing.
“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. You’re incredibly beautiful, and I lost control. Really, I thought you were interested… Miki?”
I pressed my palms flat against the door, bracing like I could hold him out with the weight of my own body.
The silence stretched, but I could still hear him breathing on the other side. Then his weight shifted away from the door, and the slow drag of his feet carried across the carpet. I heard the soft click of my bedroom door closing.
I stayed in the bathroom another twenty minutes, knees pulled tight to my chest, before I finally worked up the nerve to come out.
31
Akiko
By the end of the night, there were six of us tucked away in that place. I called it the Nikubeya—the meat room—because that’s what it felt like: cold storage for people instead of cuts of wagyu. The name stuck. Soon everyone else was using it too.
Whenever someone new was thrown into a cell and the Chopmen finally left, the questions would begin—hesitant at first, then tumbling out. That was how we pieced things together. We had all been brought here by someone connected to an apprentice in our class. Every story followed the same path: first Flame Toro’s restaurant, then Flame Aji’s. The dishes we were served varied, but the end result never changed. Both chefs voted, and the vote always sent us to the island.
Everyone had been tormented before ending up here. Some by Reina, some by Kanshisha-san—apparently my class was the only one who called him Iron Face. The damage was different for each of us—businesses ruined, cars repossessed, homes lost, marriages destroyed. If I’d thought I was the only one whose life had been torn apart, I was wrong.
Kai had gone through Kage Ryu two years before me. Probably the most normal of the newcomers, though that didn’t say much here.
Haru was the oldest—eight years before me—and it showed in the weathering of his face, in the bitterness carved so deep it looked permanent. He carried anger like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
Daiki, five years before me, had once sold sweets. Now all he had left was sarcasm, sharp and constant, as if humor were the only weapon he still trusted.
Yoshi, six years before me, had run a noodle shop before he broke down. His wife left with the kids. I felt sorry for him the most; he seemed hollowed out, like the fight had been taken from him.
And then there was Sora, just the year before me, jittery, like he hadn’t stopped shaking since he arrived. His PTSD was the worst I’d ever seen. Whatever was waiting for us, I feared he wouldn’t survive it.
That was it. Six of us in all. The roster of the Nikubeya.
What surprised me most was I didn’t have to explain who I was. They already knew my name and my story. To them I was the girl who’d brought down the Sakamotos, the one who’d ended the people who made their lives hell. I was a hero in their eyes.
In my head I felt anything but. Sitting in the dark, cut off from Miki and wondering if I’d dragged her down with me, I didn’t feel like someone who’d saved anyone. I felt like the cause of all this.
But if the Sakamotos hadn’t been ended that night, I would be dead. There was no denying that. Jiro and I fought back because we had no choice. We had to fight to the death. The truth was ugly and simple: I was never supposed to survive the apprenticeship.
The rattle of keys carried down the corridor. Heavy boots scraped against stone—too deliberate to be a prisoner’s shuffle. We fell silent.
A figure was shoved inside, stumbling hard as the barred door clanged shut behind him. The Chopmen didn’t enter; their shadows slid away, leaving only the dim torchlight.
He carried a dented metal tray, balanced carefully in both hands, stacked high with plastic boxes. The smell hit first—grilled meat.
He limped down the row, shoulders hunched, gray scrubs in tatters. With every uneven step the tray rattled. Prisoners stirred, arms slipping through the bars to snatch their portions without a word.
I watched him from the corner of my bench, catching only his back—the slope of it, the narrow waist, the awkward rhythm of his walk. Something in the way he carried himself tugged at me. I shoved the thought away. It was impossible.
But I kept watching.
He passed Daiki’s cell, then Sora’s. The tray grew lighter at each stop. He didn’t speak, just kept moving, the limp slowing him, stretching each delivery longer than it should.
By the time he reached Yoshi, my pulse was hammering. I couldn’t see him, only hear the drag of his feet across stone. Then he came back into view at Haru’s cell beside mine—the tilt of his shoulders, the rhythm of his steps… so familiar.
He stopped at my bars. For the first time, he turned slightly, the tray balanced against his hip, bento box in his hand.
“Take it,” he said.
