Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 66993 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66993 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Zo got to my side. “I’m feeling uneasy. I don’t know about this.”
“What don’t you know?”
“There’s too much money here. My gut says something is wrong.”
“Now you’re freaking me out.”
“This place has a whole lot of money here. Look at those shoes,” He gestured to an olive-skinned woman playing the piano. “Where there’s money, there’s crime.”
“Let’s hope not too much crime.” I stepped around Zo and headed straight for the manager’s office. “Come on, Jun says I have to meet the owner before I’m allowed to observe anything. Once I get his permission, we’re officially on our soapland luxury tour.”
“Wait—owner?” Zo caught up quickly and gently grabbed my arm.
One of the guards turned toward us and narrowed his eyes.
“Why do you need to talk to the owner, Nyomi?”
I looked up at Zo. “I have to reassure him that nothing I write will expose anyone. No names, no identifying details. The usual nondisclosure dance.”
“You never said anything about meeting the owner.” He lowered his voice. “Do you even know who owns these places? The Yakuza.”
“Yes,” I pulled my arm free. “But I’m not crazy and I damned sure am not here to blow up the Yakuza’s secrets.”
“But—”
“The world needs more stories that don’t treat sex workers like they’re disposable once the lights go out. And places like this. . .” I nodded toward the gilded hallway. “There’s more going on here than just sex. There’s culture. Power. Fantasy. And yeah—danger. I didn’t come to Tokyo to be safe. I came to be honest. And honesty? It always lives on the edge of discomfort.”
How could I truly help Zo understand that I was also here for the silence underneath all the sex—the ache people paid to escape. The truth buried between moans and money. I needed to know what it meant when pleasure became performance—when it stopped being pretend.
Zo looked at me with widened eyes but said nothing in response.
In truth, he didn't need to.
I'd known him long enough to read the worry etched across his face. His concern was genuine, but he also knew my determination was equally so.
We headed off.
When we got close, the door down the hall opened.
Jun peeked his head out, sporting a big white shirt with some sort of green and black food stain spotting the front.
Fast, Jun gestured to his office. “There you go! Come, Mr. Sato doesn’t like to wait on anyone. Hurry.”
“I’m so sorry,” I picked up my pace.
Clearly nervous, Zo trailed behind me. “Remember, Nyomi. No excessive smiling, hugs, or that kiss cheek thing you always do. Don’t shake the owner’s hand unless he offers it first. Do a half-bow from the waist while your hands are on your thighs with your fingers touching.”
“Got it.”
“And if all else fails, you’ll probably be okay.” He grabbed my hand. “You’re a gaijin so he’ll think you don’t know anything anyway.”
“Good because I truly don’t know shit.”
When we made it to the office, I looked inside and froze in the doorway.
Oh my.
Zo had to nudge me forward.
My tape recorder remained heavy in my hand.
Six suited men outlined the walls with menacing expressions, their bodies still as statues—but there was nothing passive about them.
It was hard to explain why I considered them dangerous.
They weren’t tall by American standards.
No visible weapons.
No direct eye contact.
Yet. . .
Violence throbbed from them.
Their eyes were flat, unreadable. Their faces, carved from stone.
A few bore jagged scars—one across a cheekbone, another along the side of his forehead, a third curling down his throat like it had been chewed by fire.
Though they all wore the same shade of midnight-black suits, their hairstyles varied —black to bright purple, bald to mohawk.
One man had long blond hair pulled into a low knot, his features so delicate and feminine they bordered on ethereal—like a doll sculpted for display, not war.
Another had short black hair with a bold red streak slashing down the right side—like someone had dipped a brush in blood and then painted it on. That one leaned against the wall with casual arrogance; His eyes razor-sharp, scanning everything.
They were like predators dressed for a funeral. The kind of men who didn’t raise their voices because they never needed to.
And they didn’t watch me.
Not directly.
Though I felt them monitoring me the way one could feel a sharp blade resting against their skin, patient and waiting for a reason to cut.
That being said, it wasn’t them who made my skin tighten…
It was him.
In the center of the room, a man that must have been in his late thirties, leaned back against a wide black desk, the overhead light slanting across the sharp line of his jaw. His designer suit midnight black tailored to perfection worn without a tie or apology.
The open collar exposed the base of his throat, the edge of ink—a single curve of black, coiling. Not enough to see the tattoo, but enough to know it was there.