The Dragon 4 – Tokyo Empire Read Online Kenya Wright

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“Why do you understand?”

He paused, and his knife stilled on the cutting board. "I understand because. . .I had just recently met someone that I was absolutely planning on not sharing with Kenji."

His voice had changed—gone quiet, heavy with grief.

Something happened to her?

Hiro started chopping again, but this time the movements were hard. Intense. The knife slammed against the board with more force than necessary.

I wanted to know more about her, about what happened, about the rising pain I could see etched into every line of his body.

But I didn't.

Some wounds were too fresh to poke at.

An upbeat reggae song came on—something with a lighter beat, something that shifted the air in the kitchen.

I started swaying slightly to the music, and after a moment, Hiro's shoulders loosened.

The aggressive chopping softened.

Time passed.

We all found our rhythm.

We both laughed, and the sound mixed with the reggae music in a way that made the kitchen feel warm.

I moved around, giving the guard further directions for the banana bread—greasing the pan, checking the oven temperature. Once Hiro finished with the potatoes, I showed him how to start on the hollandaise sauce as I cooked them.

"Gentle heat," I demonstrated over a double boiler. "You're creating an emulsion, so if it gets too hot, it'll break. Slow and steady."

When "Is This Love" by Bob Marley came on, Hiro started singing loudly, and I grinned and joined in.

And the fun continued.

We moved around the kitchen like we'd done this a hundred times—me teaching, him learning, the guard putting the banana bread batter into the oven, all of us swaying to reggae music that seemed to ease any tension in the air.

We chatted in between cooking. I was surprised by how much Hiro knew about reggae. He named artists I'd forgotten about, mentioned albums I hadn't heard in years.

Then in one moment, there were several beeps from one of my guard's watches. He checked it. Worry streaked across his face, and then he looked at me. “The Roar is calling.”

"Oh shit." I froze.

Hiro looked up from the pot. "What’s wrong?"

"I'm well past my curfew. . .like. . .probably hours. . .Reo wanted me back with Kenji. All types of time has passed."

"I've got it." Hiro waved the guard away, lifted his own watch, and pressed a button. "Reo. This is Hiro. I'm in the kitchen with the Tiger. Don't worry. You go back to sleep. I've got her and I'll make sure she safely heads back to Kenji."

A pause, then Reo's groggy voice came. "Okay. Thanks, Hiro."

Another pause hit and then beeps sounded again.

I quirked my brows.

Reo’s voice rose from the watch. "By the way, what are you two doing in the kitchen?"

Hiro grinned. "We're cooking."

"What are you cooking?” The grogginess from Reo’s voice lifted. “Is it macaroni and cheese?"

I bit back a chuckle.

Hiro spoke, "We're making Eggs Benedict with potatoes and banana bread."

There was a longer pause this time.

Then a beep, and Reo’s voice sounded. "Perhaps I should come down there to make sure everything is in order."

Hiro laughed and looked at me.

I shook my head. “Tell him that he’s getting a bento box.”

“His second bento box?”

“Just tell him and stop counting what people get. For God’s sakes, the Claws are getting their own cocktail party.”

“Fine.” Hiro rolled his eyes and pressed his watch. "She'll be making you a bento box."

I gave him a thumbs up.

Reo sounded highly pleased and almost smug. "Thank you very much. I can’t wait."

We continued cooking.

More reggae songs played.

The kitchen filled with the smells of banana bread baking, potatoes crisping in butter, hollandaise sauce coming together under Hiro's careful whisking.

I wanted to ask him things. Why he'd been sleeping in the kitchen instead of his bedroom. Why he looked so tired. Why the sake. What was haunting him so badly that he couldn't find peace even in sleep.

And of course, I wanted to know more about this woman that he’d decided not to share with Kenji.

But we were having fun.

He was smiling—really smiling—in a way that looked like it hadn't happened in a long time.

We were swaying to the reggae music, singing along.

And even my guards were bopping their heads.

And. . .I began to feel like this was all medicine.

Not just for him, but for me too.

And I knew, instinctively, that this was enough. Whatever demons Hiro was fighting, this moment of normalcy—of cooking, music, and laughter—was what he needed.

So, I didn't push.

I just taught him how to poach an egg, how to toast an English muffin to the perfect golden brown, how to plate food so it looked as good as it tasted.

When everything was done, I made his plate first—generous portions, everything arranged beautifully.

Then I helped assemble the bento boxes for the guards and Roar. I drew little symbols on each one—a tiny dragon holding a gun for Kenji's guards, a small tiger gripping a deadly pen for mine.


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