Chapter 7 The Firebird #2
"She is." I smiled, warmth spreading through my chest. "She'd love this setup. I need to FaceTime her later and give her a tour."
"And she'll be proud of what you're creating." He gestured toward the braising pot where the oxtails simmered in a bath of soy, ginger, star anise, and bourbon. "This fusion—American soul food and Japanese technique—it's not just cooking. It's conversation. Two cultures speaking to each other."
I did my best not to blush. “Thank you.”
“You will have a problem on your hands, however.”
“Oh no. What do you mean?”
“The Claws and Fangs will expect this epic treatment from you all the time.”
“Ahh.” I laughed. “Well. . .I think Kenji will help me with calming them down.”
“The Dragon surely will.”
The meat had been braising for hours now, the collagen breaking down into silk, the bourbon caramelizing against the soy until the sauce was thick and glossy.
Soon I'd shred the meat, fold it into those perfect bao buns, add pickled onions, and a drizzle of chili oil. “I really hope they like these.”
"They will. Bao is everywhere." He finished with the dough. “In China, they call it baozi. They like it soft enough to tear with your fingers. Strong enough to hold something rich.”
“Yep. That’s how I want these to be.” I watched as he rolled the dough into smooth, pale rounds—each one puffing gently beneath his palms. They looked like little clouds waiting to be filled.
“In Vietnam, it becomes bánh bao,” he continued. “A little sweeter. Bigger. Usually stuffed with pork, egg, mushrooms. A treat meant to be shared.”
“That tracks. Vietnamese food always feels generous.”
He nodded. “In Japan, it’s nikuman. Heavier seasoning. Soy, sugar, mirin. Comfort food. You buy them hot in winter from convenience stores.”
“Oh, that’s perfect for the cold.”
“Exactly.” He glanced at me. “In the Philippines, siopao. Malaysia and Singapore—pau. Indonesia—bakpao. Same idea. Different voices.”
I reached out and picked up one of the shaped buns, relishing in how light it felt in my palm. The surface was smooth and faintly warm, the dough yielding slightly when I pressed my thumb into it.
“Your pairing it with the oxtails may be genius.” Chef Bunzō’s eyes blazed with approval. “Oxtail is rich. Fatty. Deep. It needs something that absorbs without fighting back.”
I imagined this dish fully assembled—the shredded meat folded into those clouds of dough, the sauce soaking in, the sweetness of the bun tempering the salt and umami.
Pickled onions for brightness.
Chili oil for heat.
A perfect balance.
I set the bun back on the tray and looked at the pot of oxtails simmering nearby. “I want the Claws to take a bite and the meat fall apart on their tongues."
He grinned.
“In fact. . .I want them to bite into it and taste my grandmother's kitchen and their favorite Tokyo street food at the same time."
"Oh. Then you'll succeed." He nodded firmly. "I can already smell the memory you're creating."
“Yeah?”
“Yes. I feel like I’ve already met your grandmother.”
My heart warmed.
The music turned savage.
I felt it before I fully registered the shift—the violins no longer climbing but slashing, brass snarling beneath frantic strings. The tempo had shifted into something darker. More urgent.
Ah. The Infernal Dance.
The score abandoned grace entirely.
I recognized this moment of the ballet immediately. This was when Kashchei the immortal sorcerer finally awakened. When his demons poured into the enchanted garden, and chaos erupted through what had been beautiful and safe.
The monster revealing himself.
The danger that had been lurking beneath all that beauty finally showing its teeth.
The kitchen responded.
Near the prep station, the young woman's knife picked up speed—no longer the delicate pizzicato rhythm from before, but something fiercer.
Chop.
Chop.
Chop.
Ginger root split fast beneath her blade.
The older woman moved quickly too, plating with sharp, decisive movements.
Even the pastry chef had abandoned her careful piping, and was now torching the tops of the crème br?lée with quick, aggressive bursts of flame.
Across the kitchen, the young chef caught my eye and raised the small saucepan he'd been preparing. "It's time. You want to watch?"
“Sure.” I crossed to his station, drawn by curiosity and the pounding rhythm overhead.
He'd already poured a thin stream of neutral oil into the pan. It shimmered under the fluorescent lights, going liquid and loose as the heat climbed.
And the Infernal Dance pounded on—drums driving, horns screaming, Kashchei's demons dancing their savage, hungry dance.
He reached for a small bowl of fresh cayenne peppers—slender, bright red, and curved like crooked fingers.
They looked almost delicate.
Harmless.
He lined three of them on his cutting board and sliced them on the bias, his knife moving in quick, confident strokes.
Seeds spilled across the surface.
"You want the seeds too," He scraped everything toward the edge of the board. "That's where the real heat lives."
“That’s right.”
Then he tilted the board and let the peppers fall.
They hit the oil with a violent crackle.
Percussion drove the room harder now, leaving no space for quiet.
The slices seized immediately.
Losing their shape.
Then curling at the edges.
Blistering and charring as the oil embraced them.
Meanwhile, the seeds popped and danced across the surface.
And the color was captivating. The oil drank in that bright red, deepening. Orange bleeding into crimson. The peppers themselves darkening, their skins going from vivid scarlet to ember.
The smell hit me next.
Sharp.
Aggressive.
It climbed straight into my sinuses.
The air above the pan shimmered.
He stirred gently with a wooden spoon, keeping the peppers moving so they wouldn't burn. The oil had taken on a molten glow, like liquid sunset, like. . .
Fire climbing.
Smoke curling.
Bodies burning on a pyre while I watched from a window above.
I blinked, and my hand began to tremble.
What? No. Don’t think about that. We’ve been doing good.
I blinked again to ground myself.
The pounding of the Infernal Dance swelled around me.
Unfortunately, I could still see the pyre in my head. The flames licking upward. The way the smoke had twisted toward the sky.
The smell of flesh. . .
No.
I shook my head.
Focus. Stay here.
The young chef stirred the peppers in slow, careful circles, completely unaware of where my mind had gone.
The cayenne had deepened now—the slices blackening at the edges, shriveling into glowing oil. "See how they change? When the skins blister like that and the oil turns this color—that's when you know it's ready. The heat's unlocked now."
My voice came out steadier than I expected. "It's beautiful,"
He smiled. "I'll strain out the peppers and fold the oil into the glaze. The karaage will be perfect now."
“I can’t wait to try it.”
The music pounded on.
Relentless.
Savage.
I stepped back from his station, letting the sharp smell of the charred cayenne follow me.
My hands had stopped shaking.
The memory of the pyre was fading, pushed back by the warmth of this kitchen, and the rhythm of creation all around me.
Now to check on the oxtails, I went over to the stove, lifted the lid, and let the steam kiss my face.
The woman at the pastry station looked up. "Nyomi, should I start plating the tart samples? I think we've got the cream ratio right."
"Yes, please. And maybe a little less sugar in the crust next time? With the first samples, it was competing with the sweet potato."
She nodded, making a note on the pad beside her.
I checked the oxtail, lifting the lid to peer inside. The sauce was reducing nicely, but maybe a little slowly. We still had a lot of dishes to test before the day was done.
I'll just turn up the heat a bit. Speed things along.
I reached for the knob on the gas stove and twisted it higher.
The blue flame beneath the pot surged, licking up the sides of the cast iron.
There. That should. . .
The smell shifted to Christmas ham.
Next, the visuals hit me all at once.
The pyre.
The bodies stacked twenty feet from our bedroom window. Over a hundred of them. Traitors and their families—spouses, parents—fed to the flames while the loyal watched in horror.
Flesh sliding off bone.
"Nyomi!" The voice came from far away. "NYOMI!"
Hands grabbed my shoulders and shook me hard.
What?
The kitchen slammed back into focus—but something was wrong.
Thick grey smoke billowed from the stove, pouring up toward the ceiling in angry clouds.
The gas flame I'd turned up was now roaring beneath the pot, blue fire climbing so high it licked over the edges of the cast iron, tongues of orange flame catching on the sauce that had boiled over and splattered across the stovetop.
“Oh fuck!”
The oxtail wasn't braising anymore.
It was burning.
"Move back!" Chef Bunzō's voice cut through the chaos. He lunged past me toward the stove, reaching for the knob to kill the flame.
The kitchen staff had frozen in place—the woman with the ginger had her knife suspended mid-air, the young chef with the glaze was already moving toward the fire extinguisher on the wall.
I stumbled backward, disoriented, my body still half-trapped in the memory of the pyre.
Chef Bunzō twisted the knob hard.
The flame died.
The music went quiet.
But smoke still poured from the ruined pot, and the acrid smell of burnt meat and caramelized sugar filling the kitchen.
“Damn it.” I reached out without thinking—some instinct to help, to grab the pot, to fix what I'd broken.
My fingers touched the cast iron handle.
White-hot pain hit me.
“Shit!” I yanked my hand back with a sharp cry.
The burn was instant.
Searing.
A bright red line was already forming across two of my fingertips where they'd made contact with the superheated metal.
"Ice!" Chef Bunzō barked at the nearest staff member—the older woman with the laugh lines. "Get ice, now. Cold water first, then ice."
She was already moving, grabbing a clean towel and running it under the tap.
“Fuck.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I got lost for a minute.”
“No. No. That’s fine.” Chef Bunzō turned to me. "Are you okay? Is everything alright?"
For some dumbass reason, I couldn't answer.
My hands were shaking.
In fact, my whole body was shaking.
And it shouldn’t have been that way.
I’d seen the damn pyre hours ago. I’d made peace with what I saw and the violence of this new world that I’d stepped into.
I was stronger than this.
Get it together. Right fucking now.
The woman gave the cloth to the Chef and then he pressed the cold, wet towel against my burned fingers. “Should I call the island’s doctor?”
“No.” I hissed at the contact. “I’m. . .fine.”
"Is there anything I can get you?" Chef Bunzō asked, still holding my hand with the towel. "Anything at all?"
I opened my mouth to say something, but the words wouldn't come. Because apparently, I wasn't fine. I was falling apart in the middle of his beautiful kitchen, surrounded by ruined food and worried faces.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
And then a deep voice sounded from the doorway. "Everyone leave."
I looked up.
Hiro stood at the threshold, broad frame blocking the light from the hallway. No shirt—just dark pants and bare feet, like he'd been in the middle of something when he sensed trouble with me.
His eyes swept the scene—the smoking pot, the scattered staff, Chef Bunzō holding the wet towel pressed to my burned fingers.
Then his gaze locked on mine.
And in them, I saw recognition.
Understanding.
The bone-deep knowledge of someone who had walked through his own fires and come out scarred.
"Did you fucking hear me?” Hiro put his gaze on the chef. “Everyone out."
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried absolute authority.
Chef Bunzō left me with the towel and nodded. "Keep the ice on those fingers."
The staff moved quickly, until one by one, they filed out through the side door, casting worried glances over their shoulders.
Fuck. That was embarrassing.
Within seconds, the kitchen was empty.
Just me and Hiro. And the haze of smoke still hanging in the air near the ruined oxtail in its blackened pot. Hiro looked back at me. “How are you?”
"I'm fine."
“Hmmm.” He just stood there in the doorway, still filling it completely—all broad shoulders and sculpted muscle, his bare chest covered in ink that told stories I was only beginning to understand.
He looked like he'd just rolled out of bed from having sex. Hair wild and tousled, yet somehow still stylish in that effortless way.
Dark pants hung low on his hips.
Bare feet on the kitchen tile.
And those eyes were sharp, assessing, and seeing straight through my bullshit. "You're not fine. And we both know it."
I shivered.
“So, let’s talk.”