“I’m sorry I disappointed you, honored Samurai,” I said softly. “Perhaps I was . . . intimidated. You have such a commanding presence. It made me nervous.” I paused. “You must be someone important, someone with great responsibility.”
The officer’s expression softened slightly. “I do bear significant responsibility, yes, though it is rarely acknowledged.”
I reached out, this time gripping his arm firmly rather than trailing fingers. Sakurai’s eyes widened at the touch, at how our eyes locked when I held his gaze. “That must be very frustrating, to work so hard for men who do not appreciate your efforts.”
“You have no idea.” He lay beside me, stretching out his legs. I moved my hand to his chest, tracing circles on Sakurai’skimonowhere bare skin would’ve been after an intimate moment. “I coordinate supply movements for three battalions. Three! My work ensures that soldiers have food, weapons, and equipment. It is complex work. One mistake could cost lives, but do my commanders notice? Do they thank me? Do I receive awards or promotions?” He snorted. “Never. They expect perfection and complain when there are delays, even ones beyond my control.”
“Delays?” I asked, keeping my voice sympathetic. “I . . . I do not understand. What do you mean by delays?”
“The northern routes are chaos. Rebel activity has disrupted everything. Convoys that used to take five days now take ten, if they arrive at all. I have to reroute constantly, find new suppliers, pay inflated prices. When I do, they do not thank me for saving men and wares; they complain about costs!” His frustration was building, his guard dropping. “Just last week, I had to redirect an entire shipment through Kyo because the northern pass was too dangerous. That added three days and two hundredryoto the expense, sure, but did they commend my quick thinking? My innovative new route? How I ensured every man arrived safely despite the danger the rebels posed? No. They demanded to know why I had exceeded budget.”
Sakurai dropped the character and studied me. “Better, much better. You identified what he needed—validation—and provided it. In return, he gave you information about supply routes, rebel activity, military costs, and operational challenges. Well done.”
Something warm stirred in my chest. Pride, perhaps? Or relief that I was capable of this.
Then the warmth curdled into something cold. I was good at this, good at manipulation, good at lying. That should’ve made me even prouder, but it only pushed me further away from the boy I once was, the man I wanted to be—the man Yoshi loved.
When had that happened?
“One more,” Sakurai said. “This one will be harder. I am a noble. I am wealthy, highly educated, and suspicious by nature. Everyone wants something from me. Few are fully honest. Fewer express their true intent. I am testing you because I do not trust often. Iwantto catch you in a lie or an attempt to manipulate me. My guard lowers for no one.”
He transformed again. This time his entire demeanor radiated cold intelligence. His eyes grew sharp and calculating.
“You are very practiced,” he said, his tone neutral. “How many men have you entertained since arriving at this house?”
The question was a trap. Too many, and I seemed used. Too few, and I seemed inexperienced.
“I . . . I do not keep count,” I said. “Each person is different, each experience unique. I try to be present for each one rather than . . . cataloging them.”
“A diplomatic answer.” His eyes narrowed. “But it tells me nothing. Are you always so evasive?”
My pulse quickened.
“Forgive me, honored one. I do not mean to be evasive,” I said, trying to find solid ground. “I simply . . . I prefer to focus on the present, on you, on this moment. The past seems irrelevant when I’m with someone as—”
“Flattery.” He cut me off. “Now you are transparent and insulting. Do you think I am so vain that empty compliments will distract me?”
This was going wrong. I was losing him. I felt panic rising.
Sakurai was not breaking character.
This was the lesson—how to recover when things went wrong.
I took a breath and tried to think. This man wanted honesty—or the appearance of it—something that felt real rather than performed.
“You are right,” I said quietly, lowering my gaze. “Forgive this one. You are clearly a man who values directness.” I met his eyes. “The truth is, I am still learning my role, still figuring out how to . . . be what men need. Some customers want flattery, some seek an illusion, but you—” I paused. “I believe you want authenticity . . . and I’m not sure . . . I’m not sure I remember how to give that anymore, how to be . . . whoever I was.”
The noble’s expression shifted. It didn’t soften, not exactly, but it shifted with consideration, with curiosity.
“Interesting,” he said. “Most would continue the performance, double down on the lies, but you admit the truth.” He leaned back. “Perhaps you are cleverer than I credited. Or perhaps you are an excellent liar who knows that sometimes honesty is the most effective deception.”
My gaze lifted and met his. My words came out a broken whisper. “I do not know which I am anymore,” I said, and I realized it was true. “I begin to forget what is real and what’s performance, and . . . that terrifies me.”
Sakurai dropped the character. For a long moment, he simply stared.
“That,” he said finally, “was exceptional. When you cannot win through charm or manipulation, vulnerability can be your weapon. You made the man feel he had seen something real, something you do not show others. Whether it was real or not becomes irrelevant—hebelievesit was.”
He stood and moved toward the door, then paused. There were footsteps in the corridor outside.
