19. The Broadcast
Chapter nineteen
The Broadcast
Nyomi
Hiroko’s phone trembled in my hand as the BBC logo faded into view, and the male news anchor’s voice began—crisp, polished, and British in that unnerving way that made everything sound more civilized than it was.
“Good morning. We interrupt programming with breaking news from Japan.” His voice was too calm for the words spilling from his mouth.
“In a surprise coordinated attack early this morning, over forty bombs detonated across Tokyo, targeting key buildings and infrastructure. This has shocked the world and left authorities scrambling for answers.”
The words didn’t hit like news. They rang out like a funeral bell—clear, heavy, and already too late.
I knew Kenji would start the war. But hearing it spoken aloud—formal, final, and real—on international news. . .that was different.
“The blasts have severely disrupted the city’s eastern power grid, plunging large parts of Tokyo—and several surrounding towns—into darkness for hours.”
My body trembled, then my brain did too. A tremor of horror moved through my spine. My fingers went cold. My heart forgot its rhythm.
Because this wasn’t abstract anymore.
This was real.
Fire.
Ash.
“Emergency crews are working to isolate damaged substations while rerouting electricity from neighboring prefectures. Officials warn rolling blackouts could continue for days.”
The screen cut from the news anchor to live footage of smoke rising across Tokyo—towering plumes of black still curling into the golden afternoon sky.
“Before we continue, I must warn viewers that some of the following footage contains graphic scenes, and may be distressing to watch.”
I gripped the phone tighter.
Hiroko hadn’t moved. She stood like a statue beside me, arms crossed too tightly over her chest, lips pressed in a flat line.
Zo lingered in the background, pacing.
“The confirmed death toll stands at 220, with many more injured or missing. All fatalities are believed to be adult men who were inside the targeted structures at the time.”
In the footage, screams unfolded beneath the news anchor’s calm.
The air shimmered in heatwaves, the light fractured by fire.
Helicopters buzzed overhead.
Sirens blared from every direction.
“Oh my God.” I sat down on the bed and covered my mouth.
“The Japanese government has declined to comment on who may be behind the attack. However, our sources have confirmed that no group has claimed responsibility.”
The screen shifted back to the news castor. “Scenes from across the capital show rising smoke, shattered buildings, and emergency responders battling multiple fires.”
The video cut to a wide aerial view—likely drone footage—of several buildings mid-collapse.
One fell like a stack of paper, slowly at first, then crumbling inward.
Another burst from its center in a fiery bloom.
The skyline twisted with orange and ash.
“Authorities are still trying to determine what the targeted buildings were used for. No one has claimed ownership of them and the government has also not provided further information.”
A shiver skittered across my back.
I could hear my own heartbeat now, thudding like a war drum in my ears.
The footage shifted again—closer now.
Street-level.
CCTV.
Japan had surveillance nearly everywhere in the metro zones. Silent, all-seeing eyes on every block, every alley, every train platform.
The screen showed one building just seconds before detonation. Men—blurry and hunched in coats—filed in through a steel-reinforced door.
A timestamp blinked in the corner.
Thirty seconds later, the camera fizzed and cut to another angle.
Then—boom.
The building buckled and flames shot out of the windows like vengeful wings. Glass shattered. Debris rained down in slow-motion sparks.
It didn’t even look real.
It looked cinematic.
Like something from a war film or a first-person shooter game.
My throat burned.
My vision tunneled.
“In one of the most harrowing clips captured by a civilian, a crowd of residents gather along the edge of Ginza as firefighters attempt to control a blaze engulfing what was formerly believed to be an empty warehouse.”
The clip played.
People—men, women, children—lined the barricades. One mother clutched her son tightly, her hand shielding his eyes even as she stared straight into the flames. Her other hand trembled, pressed against her lips. They stood beneath a red paper lantern swinging in the smoky wind.
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.