Chapter 15
Chapter fifteen
The Performance
Nyomi
Kenji pulled me closer and wrapped his arms around my waist, drawing me to him. “Are you ready?”
“For what?”
"This is called buyō. It’s a traditional dance theater. Sword performance."
My head found the curve of his shoulder, and his hand settled on my hip, warm and possessive through the silk of my phoenix gown.
The three figures had stopped at the edge of the 4D display and waited.
This is going to be interesting.
More figures emerged from the shadows behind them.
Musicians.
Three of them, dressed in dark traditional clothing.
One carried a shamisen—I recognized the three-stringed instrument from our first date.
Another held a bamboo flute. A third settled behind with an odd-shaped drum.
And the koto player I'd noticed earlier adjusted her position and got closer to them.
"When I was young, my father would leave for long trips. Weeks sometimes. Months." Kenji's thumb traced lazy circles on my hip. "My mother never turned on the television. She said screens were empty. Cold. Instead, she would bring performers to the house to entertain me."
I tilted my head to look at him. “That’s so cool.”
"It was. There were tons of them. Musicians. Dancers. Storytellers." A soft smile touched his lips. "I would sit with her in the great room and watch for hours. I felt like the luckiest boy in the world."
My heart squeezed. “Your mother was awesome.”
“She was. . .and although. . .she’s not here. . .” He sighed. "I wanted to share her tradition with you. Similar to your dinner for me at Hiroko’s club, showing me parts of you. I want to give you a piece of my childhood."
I reached up and touched his jaw. "Thank you."
He turned his head and pressed a kiss to my palm. “You’re welcome, Tora.”
Then the music began.
I put my view back on the performance.
The koto sang first—a single, haunting note that hung in the air.
The shamisen joined, plucking a melody that made my chest ache.
The flute breathed soft and mournful.
And beneath it all, the drum began a slow rhythmic beat.
Like a heartbeat.
Like footsteps approaching.
The woman moved first.
She glided along miniature Tokyo, weaving between buildings that rose to her shoulders.
Her fire-colored kimono rippled as she danced past Ginza’s towers, and her movements were playful and teasing.
She spun between skyscrapers, and her fingers trailed along rooftops, as a coy smile spread across her painted lips.
Further behind and almost hidden, the two men stood on opposite ends of the 4D city.
One near Shibuya, on my left. The towering buildings of that district blocked his view of the other side.
One near Shinjuku, on my right. The dense wall of skyscrapers hid everything beyond.
It didn’t seem like they could even see each other. But I knew damn well they could see her. Their gazes were locked on her playful dancing.
The music picked up, and the woman danced toward Shibuya first.
She moved through the miniature city like she owned it—hips swaying, kimono blazing, that flirtatious smile never leaving her face. She ducked beneath elevated train tracks, twirled around the Shibuya 109 building, and suddenly. . .the first man caught her.
I blinked.
His hands found her waist, and he spun her into his arms.
Okay.
She gasped—surprised, delighted—and then he kissed her.
Oh my. This is going to be a romantic performance.
She melted into that kiss as the flute’s notes rose.
Her fingers curled into his chest. Her body arched against his. A giggle escaped her lips when he pulled back, breathless and stunned.
Giggling some more, she pressed a finger to his mouth. “Shh.”
Then she slipped away.
I smirked.
She danced backward, blowing him a kiss. Her laughter rose, turning light and musical.
The man stood frozen near Shibuya crossing with his painted face revealing a mask of shocked joy.
Seconds later, he began to dance on his side of the display.
Spinning.
Leaping.
His movements were full of bliss.
Like a man who'd just been touched by a divine goddess.
The woman twirled away through the city.
She wove between Ginza's towers, skipped over the miniature Sumida River.
Her kimono left trails of color in her wake.
She was playing.
Teasing.
Enjoying her life.
She danced toward Shinjuku.
The second man saw her coming.
Oh shit. I forgot about him.
He moved to intercept, cutting between the narrow alleys of Golden Gai.
Unaware, the woman spun around a corner and found herself caught by him too.
His arms wrapped around her.
She looked up at him with eyes wide.
He kissed her.
Girl. . .
This kiss was deeper than the first guy.
More urgent.
His hand cradled the back of her head, pulling her close. She stiffened for a moment—genuinely surprised—and then she giggled against his mouth.
Alright. . . .be careful. They have swords. Let’s hope they share.
When he released her, she stumbled backward with her hand pressed to her lips.
Two men.
Two kisses.
Her painted face flushed with delight.
She giggled again and rushed away, disappearing into the maze of miniature Tokyo.
The second man watched her go, and his expression was dazed. His body swayed like he'd been drugged.
He began to dance on his side of the display.
Spinning.
Reaching.
Lost in the pleasurable memory of her mouth.
The music shifted.
The drum beat faster.
The shamisen struck a more urgent note.
Both men began to move.
They pursued her through the city from opposite directions—weaving between buildings, leaping over bridges, following the ghost of her laughter.
So intrigued, I left the Dragon’s hold and leaned forward, wondering what would happen next.
When they meet up, are they going to have a big orgy?
The woman ran ahead of them, glancing over her shoulder with that flirtatious smile. She giggled as she ducked beneath Tokyo Tower, spun through Roppongi, her kimono blazing behind her like a comet's tail.
She thought it was a game.
She thought they were both chasing her.
And then the men reached the center of the display.
They emerged from opposite sides near the base of Tokyo Tower—and froze.
They saw each other.
Oh shit.
The woman kept running for a few more steps before she realized the footsteps behind her had stopped. She turned with that playful giggle still on her lips. . .and saw them.
Standing face to face.
Recognition dawning.
And it was like this realization hit them at the same moment.
Their joyful expressions twisted into something darker.
Jealousy.
Rage.
The understanding that they weren't the only man in her life.
The first man drew his sword.
The second man drew his.
Steel sang as the blades cleared their sheaths.
Oh fuck. It’s about to go down.
The woman's giggle died in her throat.
Her flirtatious smile vanished.
Yeah, girl. A threesome is not happening today.
With their swords raised, the men circled each other.
The music grew dark—the drum pounding like a war drum, the shamisen shrieking with rage.
I gripped the edge of the table.
The first man lunged.
His blade swept in a vicious arc, and the second man barely twisted away.
Their swords met with a clash that rang through the war room.
I almost jumped.
Sparks seemed to fly—or maybe it was just the candlelight playing tricks.
They fought.
Really fought.
Not the careful, choreographed dance I'd expected.
This looked real.
Their bodies slammed into each other. Their blades met again and again, the sound of steel on steel filling the space.
They moved through the miniature city, and I held my breath every time a sword swept close to a building.
Y’all better not mess up the Dragon’s war room.
But they never hit anything.
The precision was extraordinary.
Even in their fury, even in their battle, they navigated Tokyo's towers without disturbing a single structure.
The woman rushed toward them.
"Stop!" Her voice rang out. All the flirtation was gone. All the playfulness. Now there was only fear in her eyes. "Please, stop!"
She tried to get between them. Reached for the first man's arm.
He shoved her away without looking, and his focus was locked on his rival.
She stumbled.
And tried again.
The second man's sword swept toward the first man's chest, and nearly caught her across the throat.
I didn’t mean to, but I murmured, “Be careful.”
They fought more.
She got in the way and jerked backward, her hand flying to her neck.
The blade had missed by inches.
Maybe less.
Both men froze for a heartbeat.
Then they were fighting again, moving away from her, their battle carrying them through Roppongi, through Ginza, their swords flashing in the candlelight.
The woman followed, crying now.
Tears cut tracks through her white makeup as she begged them to stop.
But they couldn't hear her.
Or wouldn't.
They were lost in their fury, in their need to destroy each other.
The first man's blade found its mark. His sword sliced across the second man's shoulder, and to my utter shock, red exploded from the wound.
I gasped. “What?”
But it wasn't blood.
It was red cord. It poured from a hidden place in his costume, spilling down his arm, pooling on the floor of miniature Tokyo. The crimson threads spread across the streets of Shinjuku like rivers of blood.
Oh. This is so dope!
The injured man staggered, but he didn't fall. He swung back. His blade caught the first man across the ribs, and more red cord burst forth. It cascaded down the man's side.
This is absolutely incredible.
I had no idea how they were doing this. How the cord was hidden. How it released at exactly the right moment. The illusion was perfect—it looked like they were genuinely cutting each other apart.
Meanwhile, the woman screamed. She threw herself between them again, her arms spread wide, her kimono blazing. The men paused, chests heaving, their bodies draped in red cord that looked like gore.
"Please!" Her voice broke. "Please stop! I'll choose. I'll choose one of you. Just stop."
My mouth parted.
Who will she choose?
The men didn't lower their swords. Their eyes stayed locked on each other.
They don't care anymore. It's not about her now. It's about winning.
The woman's face crumpled.
She stepped back.
Her hand moved to the wide sash around her waist and emerged with something small.
A dagger.
Silver.
Gleaming.
It looked real.
Both men saw it, and their swords lowered.
What is she about to do?
The woman looked at them.
At the red cord draping their bodies.
At the destruction they'd caused for her.
And slowly—so slowly—she raised the dagger to her own throat.
Oh fuck. Girl, don’t do that.
The men stepped forward.
She stepped back.
The drum pounded.
They froze.
And then music lowered, and the koto played a single repeated note.
Mournful.
Final.
The woman smiled.
It was the saddest smile I'd ever seen.
And then she drew the blade across her neck.
Red cord erupted.
It poured from her throat in a waterfall of crimson—endless, impossible amounts of it. The cord cascaded down her chest, over her fire-colored kimono, pooling at her feet. It spread across the miniature Tokyo like the city itself was drowning in blood.
No. . .
She swayed.
Her eyes fluttered closed.
And she fell.
Her body crumpled to the floor in a river of red, her kimono spreading around her like flames being extinguished. Her head came to rest near the base of a tiny Shinjuku skyscraper. Her hand, still holding the dagger, landed and fell open at her side.
The two men stood frozen. Their swords hung limp at their sides. They looked at the woman they'd destroyed.
Then they looked at each other. And I saw it in their painted faces—the realization that they'd both lost. That their fight had cost them everything. That she'd rather die than watch them tear each other apart.
The koto struck its final note.
And then there was only silence.
I couldn't breathe.
Holy shit.
I stared at the display—at the red cord covering everything, at the woman lying still as death, at the two men standing in the ruins of their own making.
What did I just watch?
Kenji's lips brushed my shoulder.
I'd almost forgotten he was there.
I turned my head slightly and found him watching me. “Did you see that?”
“Barely.”
“Kenji that was fucking amazing.”
“Not as amazing as watching you watch. You were scared, Tora.”
"Kenji." I shook my head. "That was incredible. Is it okay for me to clap? Is that the normal thing to do?"
“Of course.”
I faced the performers and clapped my heart out, letting them know that they had absolutely thrilled me. “Bravo! Bravo!”
The woman rose with the dagger clutched in her hand. All three smiled, got closer to us, and bowed deeply.
First to Kenji.
Then, to me.
And I kept on clapping.
The musicians rose and bowed as well.
Soon, they slipped away with the performers.
And then we were alone.
Kenji turned me in his arms until I faced him.
"Thank you," I whispered. "For sharing that with me. For sharing. . .your childhood and your mother’s tradition."
"Thank you for receiving it. For being here. For giving me your day."
"Our day," I corrected.
"Our day."
He kissed me.
Slow this time.
Deep.
His mouth moved against mine like we had all the time in the world. Like the war room didn't exist. Like Tokyo wasn't glowing at our feet. Like there was nothing outside this moment except the heat building between us.
When we pulled apart, I was dizzy.
His eyes searched my face. And then his expression shifted and became serious. “Tora. . .”
I smiled. “Yes.”
"We need to have a conversation. A difficult one."
It’s time.
My stomach tightened. "Can't we just. . .pretend everything is fine?"
"No, Tora." His hand found my jaw and cradled it gently. "I won't do that. You're my Tiger. You're my Heart. And you deserve honesty, even when it's hard."
I swallowed.
"This morning, you made a demand of me. Asked for something specific. Power."
"Kenji—"
"I never answered you."
"I know, but—"
"Let me answer now." His thumb stroked my cheek. "I need to give you an answer, Tora. And it's going to be a hard one."
The words landed in my chest like stones.
What is he going to say?
"Okay," I whispered. "I'm listening."