Chapter 19 #2
“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 hundred ryō to 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. I want to 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—he believes it was.”
He stood and moved toward the door, then paused. There were footsteps in the corridor outside.
Both of us froze.
Sakurai’s hand moved to his side. I had not noticed before, but there was a small blade tucked into his clothing.
His fingers curled around the handle, his body coiled and ready.
I’d never seen him fight or show any indication of being trained to do so.
There, with a simple flex of his fingers, I watched a panther coil and ready to pounce.
He was every bit the predator the woman in black had been—perhaps more so for his deception, for making me believe him harmless.
The footsteps passed, continued down the corridor, then faded. Sakurai relaxed fractionally but did not remove his hand from his weapon.
“We must be always aware,” he said quietly. “Always ready. This room is safer than most, but nowhere is truly safe.”
He finally released the blade and looked at me.
“Tomorrow morning, I will return at the same time. We will work on memory techniques—how to catalogue what is present in a room, how to retain exact conversations even while distracted, how to see what hides in plain sight. This morning was a taste; tomorrow we begin the meal.” His expression was serious.
“You did well today, Kaneko-san, better than I expected. You have natural aptitude for this work.”
“Thank you . . . I think,” I said, unsure what I believed. Then without thinking, asked, “Is that good or bad?”
He considered a moment. “I believe it may be both. It means you will survive, but it also means you will change. Lying will become natural. Trust will become nearly impossible. You will forget who you were beneath the masks, and . . . there is sadness in that loss.”
That loss. A loss of self. Of all the things this man had done with me, said to me, tried to teach me, those words frightened me the most.
“It feels like I’m already forgetting,” I said quietly. “I don’t want to forget . . . everything.”
He studied me again, and something like sympathy flickered in his eyes.
“Then hold on to what you can,” he said. “Whatever piece of yourself still feels real, protect it, because once it is gone, you will never get it back.”
Then he was gone, the door sliding closed with barely a whisper, and I sat alone in the growing light of the new morning, my mind churning. He was right; I had been good at the practice, too good. Lies came easily. Manipulation felt natural.
I stood and moved to a small mirror in the corner of my chamber, looked at my reflection in the dim light.
“You’re too kind,” I said softly, practicing the phrase, making my voice warm, my expression appreciative.
I couldn’t tell if I meant it or if I was lying, couldn’t tell where the performance ended and I began.
Yoshi, I thought, staring at the stranger in the mirror. I’m becoming someone you won’t recognize, someone I don’t recognize. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to hold on . . . to hold on to myself . . . without you.
Outside, the house began to wake.
I heard voices, footsteps, and the sounds of another day beginning.