"This is Zo. That's Z-O, not short for anything, just Zo. Like Cher, but taller and way whiter."
A laugh escaped me.
"We are currently in a Japanese soapland, which is not—repeat, not—a brothel. Though things do get very. . .sudsy."
I could picture his face perfectly—that ridiculous, self-satisfied grin he got whenever he thought he was being clever.
"Soaplands are unique to Japan. Originally, they were bathhouses. Now? They're the lovechild of a spa, a massage parlor, and the kind of sexual fantasy you don't tell your therapist about."
Past-me's exasperated voice:"Wow."
"In a soapland, you pay for the massage. The emotional trauma that follows? Free of charge."
"Give me my damn recorder back."
"This has been Zo. Cultural ambassador. Fashion designer and occasional flirt. Out."
The recording clicked off.
I sat there in the sudden silence, still smiling, but something heavy settled in my chest.
That was old me.
That version of Nyomi—standing in a soapland with her best friend, recording notes for a book, laughing at Zo's ridiculous commentary—had no idea what was about to happen.
She didn't know that minutes later, she'd walk into the Dragon's office.
She didn't know her heart would stop at the sight of him.
She didn't know that within weeks, she'd be in his bed, marked by his teeth, claimed in ways she'd never imagined.
She didn't know about the bombs, the war, the test with the Fangs.
She didn't know that yakuza soldiers would be protecting her grandmother in Charleston, or that she'd fall so completely in love with a man that was brutally dangerous.
That Nyomi thought she was there to write a book about Japan's sex industry. She thought she'd get her interviews, gather her research, and go home. She thought her biggest challenge would be convincing editors that the story mattered.
She had no idea her entire life was about to detonate.
Wow. Life is insane.
I pressed my hand to my chest, feeling the ache there—not painful, but profound.
How do you mourn a version of yourself that still exists in a recording?
How do you say goodbye to the woman you were before everything changed?
I looked around the office—at the shelves filled with books I couldn't have afforded, at the desk positioned to catch perfect light, at the ocean stretching endlessly beyond the windows.
That woman on the recorder would never have believed this future was real.
She would think it was fiction.
Fantasy.
Some impossible romance novel plot.
But it wasn't.
