Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 161615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 539(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 161615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 539(@300wpm)
He was a threatening weapon.
He lifted his gun. The muzzle pointed down as he angled his body toward the door, shoulder lowered slightly, breath steady.
I stepped back instinctively.
The switch in him made my pulse tighten. I’d seen him sleepy and amused.But this was Hiro entering a room like a man who expected to kill whoever waited on the other side.
The back of my neck prickled again. That crawling, electric awareness slithered over my skin—slow, deliberate, like an invisible snake brushing its scales along my spine.
Was it paranoia?
Or was it instinct?
I swallowed and glanced behind me.
Nothing was there. Just the long hallway, the decorative sconces, and the pair of cameras that suddenly felt too aware of us.
Watching.
Recording.
Hunting.
Hiro’s gaze flicked to me for half a second, checking my position. “Stay behind me.”
Not a word of protest passed my lips.
He moved forward, twisting the knob slowly, letting the latch release without a sound.
The silence was so complete I could hear my own breathing—uneven, too fast.
Part nerves.
Part adrenaline.
Part the realization that if someone were in that room, Hiro wouldn’t hesitate.
Not for a second.
He eased the door open an inch.
Paused.
Listened.
His head tilted just slightly, like he was reading sound waves I couldn’t hear.
I shifted my weight, scanning the hallway again.
The cameras.
The shadows.
The nameplates.
My imagination conjured shapes in every doorway while fear crawled under my ribs.
What if the person who erased the footage was in a secret passageway listening to us?
What if the thump above us wasn’t settling wood?
Hiro lifted his gun higher, muzzle angled toward the dark interior of the room.
Still listening.
Still assessing.
Then he pushed the door open farther, stepping inside first.
Slow.
Careful.
Silent.
His body moved with that eerie fluid efficiency—muscles coiled, breath controlled, eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
I stayed at the threshold, hands tight around my phone, heart thumping in my ears.
Hiro disappeared around the corner of the entryway.
My stomach clenched.
Seconds stretched.
Then more.
The room stayed completely quiet, yet the silence had texture—like air wrapped in silk. Every small movement exaggerated itself: the soft shift of my shoes on the rug, the faint pop of wood settling, the hum of electronics behind the walls.
I looked behind me again.
Still nothing.
But the wrong kind of nothing. The kind that felt like a held breath.
Finally, Hiro’s voice came low from inside the room. “It’s safe. Come in.”
I stepped across the threshold with my pulse still hammering.
This all felt so weird. Walking into someone's bedroom without them knowing it, was trespassing. This was a place she dreamed in, cried in, stared at the ceilings, probably touched herself in here, and hid parts of herself she didn’t let anyone see.
Crossing that doorway felt like stealing several of her confessions.
I scanned the space.
Even with the lights on, the air felt heavy—charged with the possibility of someone having been here moments before. Hiro kept his gun out, scanning every corner until he was satisfied. Only then did he lower it, though he didn’t holster it yet.
“Tonight, you never enter a room first, especially in this suite.”
“Okay, Hiro.”
He’s getting that feeling I am too. . .that someone is around us.
I kept imagining the spy watching us on some hidden monitor, waiting for us to find the wrong thing—then coming down the hall with a knife or a silenced gun.
“Alright. Let’s start.” But even as I walked forward, I kept glancing at the doorway, half-expecting someone to appear in it.
Because for the first time since arriving on this island, the danger wasn’t theoretical.
It was in the walls.
In the erased footage.
In the overhead thump.
And now, standing in Yuki’s room, Hiro’s gun still drawn—I realized the spy might not be afraid to come at us at all.
My mind clicked into that space I’d lived in my whole career—where curiosity pressed its heel against fear and whispered, Look closer.
Hiro watched me. “What do you see in here so far?”
“This is a world of gray, but not the dreary kind.”
The walls were a gentle dove-gray, the bedspread a slightly darker charcoal, with a subtle stitched pattern of clouds. A plush rug in muted ash spread underfoot, swallowing the sound of our steps.
The room smelled faintly of jasmine and fresh laundry.
The bed sat against the left wall, probably positioned that way so the first thing Yuki would see each morning was the cliff and ocean. It surely had a perfect view.
A writing desk claimed the space beneath that window, probably angled to catch afternoon light.
Bookshelves lined an entire wall, floor-to-ceiling, the wood stained a pale cool brown. Every shelf was meticulously organized: hardcovers and paperbacks lined up by height and subject, no book out of place.
I lifted my phone and snapped a slow pan. "These are interesting selections. What do you think about the books she chose to put on her shelf?"
Hiro took them in. "These are Kenji's favorites.”
“Are you sure?”
"Every single one."
I looked again, this time with that lens.
Bashō's poetry. Zen Buddhist texts. Philosophy—Nietzsche, Kant, Confucius. Italian opera histories. Books about European art and Japanese aesthetics.