The praise felt good, but I couldn’t shake my confusion. Maybe it was simply because I had saved Kubikiri from being crushed. But the more I thought about it, the more it felt like what I’d really saved was their investment.
A tug on the back of my outfit made me turn. The Handles for Tetsu Tama, the Blade I’d beaten on the Flesh Wall, stood there smiling. I would’ve thought they’d hate me. I’d cost them their moneymaker.
“We just wanted to congratulate you on such a fine performance,” the man said.
“Thank you,” I replied. “But I didn’t win.”
“Oh, but you did,” his wife said. “You’ve won the hearts of the crowd. That’s worth far more.”
The Handles for Shokaki stepped forward next, adding their own praises, then another couple, and another. Before I knew it, I was surrounded—voices overlapping, hands tugging at my costume for attention.
Compliments spat from every direction. I couldn’t tell who was saying what anymore. Their smiles were wide, their eyes glowing with an eerie hunger. Their eagerness was suffocating. All I wanted was to get away.
Then a strong hand closed around my arm. It was Masaki. “She must leave now.”
He pulled me free, holding me close as he guided me through the wall of bodies. His hand stayed firm on my arm, more protective than restraining, knowing I was on the verge of being crushed.
One by one he pushed the Handles aside, like a bodyguard, clearing a path to a waiting car. Only when we were clear did he release me. He didn’t say anything, but the concern in his eyes told me more than words could.
“What happened back there?” I asked as we walked down the corridor. My pulse was still pounding from the crowd, from the way the Handles had swarmed me.
“Technically you’re unclaimed. Ginji can’t be your Handle,” Masaki said. “They all see a chance to own you.”
I stopped in my tracks. “Own me? I’m not for sale.”
Frustration burned in me, and I reached up behind my head to undo the buckles of my mask. My fingers fumbled with the straps, but before I could tug it off, Masaki’s hands were there, steady and practiced, taking over.
“Don’t,” he said quietly. His grip was firm but careful as he tightened the buckles back into place. “Not here. Not where the Handles can get a good look at your face. If they find out you’re beautiful, too, they’ll fight for you right now.”
He kept walking, and I had to jog a step to catch up.
“But I didn’t even win the challenge. Ono Oroshi did.”
Masaki gave a low, humorless laugh. “Maybe. But you won the crowd. There’s more money in that than in any trophy. They’re already picturing your name on souvenirs, the Little Sushi Chef on banners and dolls. And don’t forget—when you pulled Kubikiri up, you handed his Handles the best performance of the night. They bet heavy, and now they’ll be collecting a fat purse. To them, that makes you more valuable than the winner.”
“So they were courting me…” My stomach turned as the realization settled in. “Am I supposed to choose?”
Masaki shook his head. His expression didn’t soften, not even a little. “No. You have no say. It’s whoever makes the best monetary offer to Ginji.”
The truth hit hard. Courted, bought, sold. I wasn’t a fighter to them. I wasn’t even a person. I was merchandise.
We’d be back at my Nikubeya soon, and I didn’t want to waste another breath on those Handles.
“Where’s Miki? Is she okay?” I asked, my voice sharper than I meant it to be.
“She’s fine, just worried about your safety,” Masaki said.
“Yeah, so am I…” I muttered, still thinking about what Masaki said. “Am I really being sold to a Handle?”
“The way they were acting back there, I believe that will happen,” Masaki said.
My throat tightened. “And Miki? Will she be free to go after Nokoribi is over? Jiro too? Or are they also doomed to live in this Leftover world?” I gave him a look. “No offense to you.”
“None taken.” His voice softened, just a shade. “Miki’s working on a plan. I can’t promise it’ll work, but…” He hesitated, eyes flicking toward me as if weighing how much more to say. “She hasn’t given up on you or Jiro.”
The door to the Nikubeya came into view. I caught Masaki by the arm, stopping him in his tracks.
“Why are you helping me?” I asked. “You’re a Chopman. You’re supposed to treat me like the others do, like I’m nothing.”
