Chapter 37 The Hidden Dragon
Chapter thirty-seven
The Hidden Dragon
Nyomi
I reached for Yuki’s doorknob, fingers barely brushing the metal when Hiro’s hand came down over mine—firm, controlled, and stopping me without force.
“Wait, Nyomi.”
I looked up at him just as he stepped in front of me. He didn’t raise his voice or make a show of it, but something in the air shifted. The hallway felt narrower. The air cooled. Hiro was no longer the man explaining nameplates and childhood dynamics.
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.
“Her personal bookshelf still reflects her devotion to Kenji.”
Hiro's shoulder lifted in a tiny shrug. "Yuki's always read what he read.”
“I bet.” I took some more pictures. “Why do you think she does it?”
“I believe that Yuki guesses that if she mirrors Kenji enough, he'll see her."
"See her how?"
He didn't say anything at first. His gaze drifted toward the nightstand.
I followed it.
The framed photo there showed a much younger Yuki, maybe nine, in a too-big sweater, Kenji's hand resting on her head. She wasn't looking at the camera. She was looking at him like he'd hung the moon and was about to hang a second one just to impress her.
Wow.
"Yuki doesn't want his protection," Hiro’s jaw clenched. "She wants his devotion, so she gives him hers."
But could that make her a spy?
I tapped my finger against the phone. “People who aren’t true bookworms. . .they design their bookshelves different.”
“How?”
“They curate them. Displaying certain books is a kind of performance. It says, ‘This is who I want you to think I am.’” I reached out and my fingers hovered near the spines without touching.
“She wants Kenji to walk in and think, ‘Yuki is so much like me. We are practically the same. She’s my soulmate.’”
I moved my hand away, and took more photos of the bookshelf and the nightstand.
We moved farther in.
I assessed the small writing desk. On it was neatly stacked stationery, a vintage fountain pen, and an Italian language textbook lying open with a page marked.
Little sticky notes dotted the margins in delicate handwriting—vocabulary, verb conjugations, careful circles of effort around every phrase.
“She’s trying to learn Italian. That’s got to be something outside of Kenji.” I looked at Hiro. “Right?”
“Maybe, but Kenji likes Italian operas.”
“Hmmm.” I went to the vanity and took in the collection of antique combs and hairpins. “No makeup or jewelry. Just a display.”
Every antique comb and hairpin was displayed like museum artifacts—Japanese lacquer, mother-of-pearl, delicate tortoiseshell carvings—arranged in a perfect gradient of color and age.
Too perfect.
Too still.
No makeup.
No brushes.
No moisturizer.
Not even a smudge on the mirror.
“Collecting antique combs is interesting. . .”
Hiro watched me but didn’t interrupt.
“Combs are historically symbols of intimacy—someone else touching your hair, tending to you, loving you. What do you think about, Hiro, when you see these antique combs?”
“Back in the day, they were given as courtship gifts.”
“Oh. Super interesting and very romantic.” I studied the pins again. “These don’t feel like objects she uses. They feel like objects she wishes she deserved to use.”
Still no makeup.
I checked the drawers—empty.
Every single one.
A chill rolled down my spine.
Do a full assessment and make sure you don’t miss anything.
If I accused the wrong girl. . .or trusted the wrong one. . .someone could die.
Maybe me.
Maybe Kenji.
“My guess. . .this isn’t about beauty. . .it’s about denial. Becoming the kind of woman she thinks Kenji would want—one who exists quietly, decoratively, without making demands.”
The thought hit harder than I expected. “She keeps things super neat and minimal too.”
“What does that tell you, Nyomi?”
“Order like this isn’t just neatness, it’s anxiety management. People who feel watched—or evaluated—keep everything pristine so they never give anyone ammunition to judge them.”
Hiro’s jaw flexed.
“I wonder who judges her and why does she care?” I crouched and checked under the bed: plastic storage bins, labeled and arranged by topic.
More books.
More opera programs.
Shoe boxes, each labeled with the brand and style, lined up in a perfect row.
"I don’t think Yuki is a spy, she’s just someone who has built an altar out of Kenji."
Hiro didn't contradict me.
I moved to the bed, the gray duvet smoothed so perfectly it could've been ironed after every nap. Four pillows were on top—three standard, one decorative with embroidered cranes in silver thread.
For some reason, I picked up the pillows and touched them.
My fingers brushed the first pillow.
Nothing.
Second and third pillows.
Nothing.