Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 101427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Behind them, a building collapsed in stages, like an accordion folding in on itself.
Firefighters shouted in Japanese, dousing the building with water that hissed and turned to steam.
I couldn’t breathe.
The camera returned to the news anchor—stoic and calm in the face of chaos. “Again. . .at this time, the Japanese government has declined to comment on the source of the attack or who may be behind the operation. No group has stepped forward to claim responsibility. The motive remains unclear.”
I stared at the screen. The image paused on a still of one of the buildings mid-burst—flames unfurling like a blood flower from its center.
I could see the artistry in it.
That was what made it worse.
Kenji hadn’t just made a statement. He’d orchestrated a showpiece where explosions were brushstrokes and the victims were negative space in his war-born mural.
Power.
That was what I felt next humming under all of this.
Not just chaos.
Power, calculated and merciless.
My legs started to shake.
“Tokyo remains on high alert and the world watches as a once-stable metropolis reels from what may be the most coordinated domestic assault in recent memory.”
The video ended.
The screen went dark.
For a breathless moment, all I saw was my own reflection, staring back at me from the glossy black glass of Hiroko’s phone. My face, lit only by the muted daylight spilling through the curved window. Eyes too wide. Lips parted in disbelief. A woman holding the aftermath in her own hands.
I looked up at Hiroko, but her face didn’t budge. Her eyes were locked on mine, heavy with something I couldn’t name.
I cleared my throat. “Kenji did this? Right?”
She didn’t speak, but Zo did, throwing his arms in the air. “God, yes! The Dragon roared all over Tokyo this morning!”
I turned to him.
Zo began pacing faster. “Dear God, I knew he brought us to this island for a reason, but I thought he was just sucking up to me to get closer to you. I was more than willing to take advantage, but now. . .”
He gestured wildly. “Like. . .bombs! I could have died! I basically survived a bomb attack today!”
I frowned. “You’re fine.”
“Am I? I’m not so sure.” He clutched his chest and collapsed dramatically into a chair near the corner, muttering something about trauma, dry skin, and needing another manicure.
Ignoring him, I put my gaze back on Hiroko.
Slowly, Hiroko sat down beside me, smoothing her long black kimono over her thighs with a grace that made everything else—Zo’s panic, the smoke on screen, even my own unraveling—feel muted.
She took the phone from my hands. Her touch was featherlight, but I still felt it. Silk over a bruise. Then, she spoke, “What do you think, Nyomi?”
“I don’t have any words right now but shock, horror, and fear.”
She nodded and looked straight ahead. “May I tell you a story?”
“Yes.” I blinked, wondering what she would say.
Chapter twenty
Feminine Strategy
Nyomi
“I was born in a small town called Uji. My father was a powerful businessman with several textile factories. He supplied high-end silk to kimono makers across Japan.” Hiroko smoothed her kimono across her lap. “He had a beautiful wife who graced the pages of society magazines. . .and a maid that was his mistress. I was the daughter of that mistress.”
I parted my lips in shock.
“My birth made me an inconvenience.”
I watched her fingers as she spoke. Perfectly shaped, polished with a pale pink gloss. Elegant hands. But there was something in the way she rolled her jade ring slowly, twisting it back and forth.
“He paid for my birth but never came to see me. Not once. He kept me hidden. I was sent away to live with an old aunt in the western district. She wasn’t cruel, but she wasn’t loving either. I was. . .tolerated. Fed. Dressed. But never kissed goodnight.”
Her gaze drifted to the floor, lingering on a knot in the tatami mat like it had meaning. “I was not a beautiful child. I was too tall. Too skinny. My teeth were crooked. My eyes drawn downward, which my aunt said made me look ‘sad in the wrong way.’ The girls at school called me tengu.”
“What does that mean?”
“Tengu is a creature from folklore. A demon-bird. Sometimes a thief. Sometimes a god. But always something that doesn’t belong.” She slowly lifted her gaze back to me. “It has a long, sharp nose. Angry red face. Wild eyes. They live in the mountains, wearing torn robes and wielding fans that can summon storms. In some stories, they steal children. In others, they protect the forest. Either way, they are always feared.”
She raised one hand and touched the slope of her nose. “Kids can be cruel.”
“They can.” I swallowed.
“But adults can be even crueler. I would hear my family whisper about my. . .ugliness. . .There I learned within the shadows that. . .beauty was power. It was. . .cultural capital and could be used to accumulate social and economic power. And that made me sad. . .”