Something flickered in his eyes before he spoke quietly.
“I’m not here to help you. I’m helping Miki. And as far as she’s concerned, it’s all three of you or none at all.”
“So you are helping to get us off the island?”
For a heartbeat I thought he would admit it, but instead he just said, “Come on. Let’s go.”
I stopped him once more. “Do you think I even have a chance tomorrow? Answer me honestly… please.”
He took a long moment, then shook his head. “I don’t think you’ll survive tomorrow.”
61
The Handles had all gathered in the enclosed viewing box overlooking the festival grounds. Morning sun streamed through the tall windows, bright and cheerful. A breakfast buffet stretched along the wall—steaming rice, miso soup, grilled fish, fruit, pastries, and coffee in silver urns. The Handles ate and drank as they gossiped, their chatter rising above the clink of dishes.
“Where the hell is Ginji?” Arata Sato grumbled, shoveling rice into his mouth. “Every damn time, he’s late. I’m sick of his bullshit.”
“Dear,” Naomi said, touching his arm. “Remember your blood pressure.”
“Arata, why so antsy?” Ryoko Banda called from the far end of the room. He dabbed his lips with a napkin and smirked. “You think you’re the only one who should get the unclaimed Half-Plated? I lost my Blade. I think we deserve her.”
“It’s obvious we’re more in need,” Emiko, his wife, added.
“You two aren’t the only ones,” Kazuo Haida snapped. “Nina and I lost the best Blade we ever had. That’s a fortune gone in licensing fees alone.”
Others joined in, their voices growing sharper, louder, the room thick with complaints.
Arata set his chopsticks down with a click and stood, raising a hand for silence. “Look, everyone here has a reason they should get her,” he said. “But we all know Ginji only cares about one thing—money. Whoever makes the best offer wins. Simple.”
“Well, you’re the richest of us,” Kazuo shot back. “Are you saying she’s already yours?”
“I’m saying Ginji’s a greedy little bastard, and?—”
The door swung open.
“Good morning, everyone.” Ginji’s voice sliced through the noise. He stepped inside with a flourish, arms spread wide, dressed in a crisp white suit that caught the morning sun. Masaki followed, shutting the door.
“My apologies for the delay. I see you’ve already helped yourselves to breakfast. Excellent. After all”—he flashed a grin—“this greedy little bastard wouldn’t dream of letting you starve.”
The tension broke into polite laughter. Just like that, the room belonged to him.
Ginji poured himself a cup of coffee, the clink of porcelain loud in the sudden quiet. He savored a sip before turning toward the room.
“We have a busy day ahead of us,” he said lightly. “Why don’t we get down to business?”
He crossed to a chair placed so that every Handle in the box faced him. Ginji lowered himself with deliberate ease, then leaned back, one arm draped across the rest, a smile tugging at his lips.
“Well then,” he said, eyes sweeping the room. “Who wants to go first?”
Arata quickly stood up, buttoning his suit jacket. “Well, I don’t mind,” he said, quickly cutting off anybody else’s chance to volunteer.
One by one, the Handles laid out their claims. Some offered money outright; others promised a percentage of their licensing deals or revenue shares from merchandise. A few went further, dangling favors, influence, and connections far beyond Nokoribi’s walls.
Ginji listened, sipping his coffee, nodding at all the right moments. He let them speak over one another, let their greed fill the air until it choked the room. To them, the girl was a prize, a brand, a fortune waiting to be mined. To him, she was a bargaining chip—one he could sell to the highest bidder when it suited him.
As much as he had come to despise the little sushi chef, he couldn’t deny the truth: Her popularity had the potential to be an unexpected windfall.
By the time the last Handle finished, the buffet had gone cold and the air hummed with tension. Every eye was on Ginji, waiting for him to pass judgment.
