by Amanda Sun
“It’s not like that,” he said. And then Sunglasses yanked me over to the truck. “Shit, man,” Ishikawa said. “Leave Katie here.”
“So she can report us, you mean?” said Cigarette. “She’s the missing piece, if you didn’t notice. She’s the freaking ink magnet. The inkwell.” He emerged from the shadows, lighting a new cigarette and holding it between two fingers.
Fear rattled down my spine and spread its icy grip to every limb. I knew I was kicking, but I couldn’t feel my legs moving anymore. The darkness of the truck loomed closer and closer, until Sunglasses threw me into it. I skidded across the metal floor, cold and studded with metal bolts that caught and sliced across my finger. My shoulder ached, but I sat up as quickly as I could, lunging toward the doors Cigarette was closing.
“Greene!” yelled Ishikawa.
I saw Sunglasses turn around and slug Ishikawa in the jaw, and then the doors slammed in my face.
“Let me out!” I banged my fists on the doors over and over. The sound of a metal bolt sliding into place echoed in the emptiness of the truck. I hit the door again.
Footsteps, the driver’s door opening and banging shut, the engine roaring to life.
“Shit!” I shrieked, hot tears blurring in my eyes. My cut finger burned as I slammed my fists into the metal over and over.
The truck lurched and I tumbled backward, half on top of Tomohiro.
I cried out in panic for a minute, Tomohiro’s limp legs pressed against mine. I screamed at my brain to think.
My keitai.
I grabbed it out of my pocket and f lipped it open, the LCD screen illuminating the darkness of the truck. I dialed 911, pressed the send button and squeezed the phone against my ear.
Come on, come on…
A strange beeping noise and a recorded woman’s voice babbling in Japanese.
What the crap? I dialed again.
How can the number not be in service?
And then it dawned on me. The emergency number in Japan is not 911.
But what the hell is it?
I stared at my phone, willing myself to know the number to call.
But I didn’t.
I stared down at Tomohiro, putting my hand on the small of his back and shaking him gently.
“Tomo?” I said, my voice trembling.
The wings were still there, feathers of ink sprawled over him and draped onto the floor. There was a gaping hole in the wings where my hand touched his back. I lifted my fingers; the ink felt greasy and warm as it dripped down my hand and over the blood from my cut.
“Tomo.” I shook him gently. But he was out cold, and the truck was driving us farther and farther into trouble.
My keitai screen blinked out suddenly, the truck dark except for a faint candlelike glimmer around the ink melting off Tomohiro’s back.
I scrolled through the names in my address book, thinking who else I could call. Diane was in Osaka and I didn’t have a contact number with me. I stared at each name as it illuminated on the screen.
There weren’t many of them to choose from.
Then Tanaka flashed up on the display.
I mashed the buttons and pressed the phone to my ear.
It rang and rang. The truck lurched to the left and picked up speed. The ink and blood dripped off my wrist and onto my keitai. I switched hands and rubbed the gunk off on my jeans, making a big, ugly splotch.
“Moshi moshi?” said the voice on the phone, and I was too shaken up to realize it didn’t sound familiar.
“Tanaka,” I blurted out, “call the police. These Yakuza attacked us and we’re in a truck and I don’t know where they’re taking us.” I choked up and started to cry.
And then I realized from the confusion on the other end that something was wrong.
“Katie?”
It wasn’t Tanaka. It was Takahashi.
I’d hit the wrong button and got the wrong name. But it didn’t matter, because anyone could help us.
“Jun,” I said. “Please help me.”
“Oh god, Katie. Are you okay? Where are you?”
“I don’t know!” I said through tears. My throat felt thick and I could barely get the words out. “We were at Sunpu Park.
I think maybe we’re on a highway. We’re moving really fast.”
“Don’t panic,” Jun said, and I felt like smacking him. Don’t panic? That’s your best advice? “I’ll call the police. Katie, did they say why they took you? Was it that Ishikawa guy again?”
“Tomohiro’s here, too,” I sobbed.
“Yuu’s there?” Silence. “Katie, do you know what they want?”
I opened my mouth but clamped it shut again. I cursed silently. I’d almost given away everything. Did it even matter anymore? They might be able to use Tomohiro, but not me.
They’d— Oh my god. They’d kill me.
“Jun, please help me.”
“Katie, I’m going to hang up so I can call the police. Try to keep your phone with you, okay? Put it in manner mode so they won’t find it. I’m coming for you. Hold tight.”
I didn’t want to hang up, to sever the only link I had to help. But I didn’t have to. Jun hung up first and my LCD
dimmed, leaving me in darkness again.
“Tomo,” I said, flipping my keitai closed and open again, and resting it beside us. The wings had melted, little pools of black trailing away from him, turning to dust and lifting slowly like dull fireflies.
His eyes were closed, his copper hair lined with sweat and clinging to the sides of his face. There was a dark pool near his mouth and I panicked. I grabbed the keitai and put it beside his face, then breathed out in relief.
It was ink dripping out of the corner of his mouth. Creepy, but it wasn’t blood, so I figured he was okay.
I looked at my finger again to see how bad the cut was.
It had stopped bleeding, but the truck was rusty. I hoped it wouldn’t get infected. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a tissue, wrapped it around the cut and pressed my fingers together to hold it there.
I checked Tomohiro again and made sure he was breathing. Then I sat back and stared at the truck, looking for any means of escape.
The keitai screen blacked out again, and this time I folded it up, shoving it into my pocket. As chilling as it was to sit here in the dark, I needed to save the battery.
The truck pulled us forward, and I rocked back and forth in the darkness, nothing to do but wait.
“Katie?”
The voice startled me in the darkness, and I shot forward onto my hands and knees. “Tomo?”
He groaned, and I heard the slide of fabric as he pushed himself up. I lifted the keitai out of my pocket and saw him hunched over in the dim light.
“What happened?” he said, rubbing his jaw.
“You passed out,” I said. “They took us somewhere. I don’t know where. They killed the engine an hour ago, but no one’s come for us yet.”
He moaned, running his fingers through his hair. Even sweaty, bloody and shoved in the back of a gangster truck, he still made my stomach jittery when he did that. He made a face, lolling his tongue out. “Ugh, my mouth tastes like a pen exploded.”
Okay, a little less attractive.
And then he snapped out of it and looked at me.
“Are you okay?” he said, and my keitai blinked out. “Did they hurt you?”
“I’m fine,” I said, folding the phone and shoving it into my pocket. I felt the warmth of his breath as he moved closer, his palms sliding up my arms to my shoulders. The rough cal-luses from kendo practice scraped against my skin followed by the towellike wristband covering his scar.
“What happened?” he said again, his voice raw. “I remember shouting your name, and then this intense…pain, like I was burning alive.”
“I don’t know what happened,” I said. Even trying to think back to it made me shudder. “There was ink everywhere. It made these…wings, on your back. And some kind of ugly, horned face above your head
.”
“Wings? A face?”
I smirked. “It scared the crap out of Ishikawa.”
Tomohiro’s voice was stone. “Good.”
“He told them to leave us alone after that. But they didn’t listen.”
“Katie. You have to get out of here.” His cool fingertips traced down my arms, sending shivers up my spine. They rested on my fingers, hesitated on my makeshift tissue bandage.
“Yeah, because I’ve just been sitting around in this truck for fun,” I said. “Like there’s a way out.”
There was silence, and I felt a little guilty for being snarky.
Just a little.
There was a distant sound, a crash not too far away. My heart jumped and I felt like I was going to puke.
“They’re coming,” I said.
“I’ll protect you,” Tomohiro said, squeezing my hands in his. “Go to the back of the truck.” He dropped my hands and stood. A light flipped on outside the truck, a little stream of light filtering between the truck doors. I could see Tomohiro’s hands balled into fists.
“You’re kidding, right?” I said. “They’ll kill you.”
“Go to the back of the truck.”
“Not a chance.” My legs felt like they were made of stone, but I numbly dragged myself toward him.
The doors flung open to blinding light. I’d been sitting in the truck for so long that pins and needles started to spark in my legs. I stumbled backward.
My eyes adjusted and I saw three men, two of them covered in rainbows of sprawling tattoos. They held guns pointed straight at Tomohiro, and the chill spread through me.
Guns are illegal in Japan. Most police don’t even carry them.
Which meant the police would be no match for these guys, even if they knew where to find us.
“Get out,” said the third man, his hands folded behind his back. He wore a black business suit and looked fairly normal—almost pleasant. “And don’t try anything.”
At first Tomohiro didn’t move. My brain practically screamed at him.
Then his feet dragged forward.
One of the guns followed his movement. The other one pointed at me.
Tomohiro’s eyes went wide. “Let her go,” he said.
I blinked back hot tears.
“It’s okay,” the suit guy said, staring at me. He lifted his hand, and the gun pointing at me lowered. “We’re just businessmen here. We’re hoping to come to an arrangement.” He smiled, reaching his hand out to help me out of the truck.
“We don’t want to do anything drastic, either.”
I stared at his chubby fingers until he pulled them back again.
“The thing is,” he said to me, as I sat on the edge of the truck and slid myself down, “we don’t know what he’s capable of. Even he doesn’t know. So we’re just being cautious.”
“Leave us alone,” I said.
The man didn’t say anything, but the tattooed, gun-toting guys motioned at us to get moving.
The room was a big parking garage, and our steps sounded hollow against the concrete floor. They marched us through a side door, into a maze of a house that felt way too big to be in Japan. Golden light filtered through the rice-paper walls as we approached a large tatami room. The shouji paper door stood before us, and as the businessman slid it aside, the full glare of the meeting room shone through the dark hallway.
We stumbled through the shouji, pushed by the men with guns.
There were about twenty men in the room and some tough-looking women. Some of them had ragged haircuts, tattoos racing down their arms and vanishing under their too-tight vests. Others looked friendlier, wearing suits like the businessman and smiling as we entered. Four rows of low-set tables were spread across the floor, some of the men kneeling at them and shoving sushi into their mouths with silver chopsticks. A Mohawked guy stood in the corner chugging a bottle of green tea as he spoke what sounded like rapid Korean with one of the businessmen.
And kneeling alone at one of the tables, looking dejected, was Ishikawa, a big, ugly bruise circling his right eye and three wide scratches across his jaw. His nose had swelled up so much he looked like the cartoon Anpanman.
“Satoshi,” Tomohiro said under his breath, but Ishikawa stared intensely at the tabletop, grimacing.
“Have a seat,” said the businessman, and a few of the others scattered to clear a table for us. Tomohiro and I just stared at him. One of the men cocked a gun and started to raise it. The businessman smiled and gestured at the table with his arm.
I wished I could punch him in the gut. But Tomohiro’s slender fingers curled around my wrist and he pulled me with him toward the table. We knelt down, two tough-looking guys closing in the sides of the table. At least Sunglasses and Cigarette were nowhere to be seen.
“We haven’t been properly introduced,” the businessman said. “You can call me Hanchi.” Tomohiro looked down at the tabletop, his hands still in fists.
Hanchi waited for a minute, looking at us thoughtfully.
Then he drew in a quick breath.
“Well,” he said, “I guess we should get down to it. We’re not here to threaten you, Yuu. We think you are a boy of incredible talent. Ishikawa speaks highly of you, you know.”
Tomohiro said nothing. The Korean guy came over and slammed a bottle of green tea in front of me. I looked up at his face, but he was already turning away.
“I think we could do a lot for each other,” said Hanchi.
“Not interested.” Tomohiro’s voice sounded so dark it almost made me shiver. It was like his don’t-give-a-crap attitude but more intimidating, like he could actually hold his own against these guys.
“Ah,” said Hanchi. “But I don’t think you’ve considered what a spectacle you made of yourself when you sketched that dragon.”
Tomohiro’s eyes went wide for a moment before he forced the expression off his face. I wondered if anyone else noticed.
“We can protect you, Yuu. We can take care of those close to you. We can protect your girlfriend.”
In a sharp voice, he said, “Ex-girlfriend. She’s not part of this.” The word ripped through me; it was probably a trick to throw them off, but I remembered then that we hadn’t made up. Maybe we were broken up. Or maybe he was protecting me the only way he could. So how come it still hurt so much to hear it?
And reality check, why do I even care in a room with gangsters and loaded guns? Still working on the priorities, I see, Greene.
“Ah,” said Hanchi. “Well. But I’ve heard you still draw inspiration from her, so the specifics don’t matter.” He muttered something and one of the men tossed a pad of paper in front of Tomohiro. Hanchi reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pen, clicking the end and placing it down on the pad.
“What’s this for?” Tomohiro said.
Hanchi smiled. “You don’t have to pretend with us. You’re not the first Kami we’ve come across. But it’s been a while.
Most of them can’t get the drawing off the page, Yuu. I know you can do better.”
“What’s a Kami?” Tomohiro said in a bored tone. He looked up at Hanchi, and I could see the dark challenge that radiated from Tomohiro’s narrowed eyes. A slick smile curved its way onto his lips.
What the hell? It better be an act, I thought. These guys could kill us, and he’s enjoying it?
Hanchi frowned, squeezing his hand into a fist.
“Don’t play around, Yuu,” he said. The friendliness was starting to drop from his voice.
Tomohiro reached for the tea bottle and twisted the cap, chugging down a mouthful and wiping his mouth with the back of his arm.
“So what’s that for?” Hanchi smirked, pointing at the wristband.
Shit.
“I play kendo,” Tomohiro said. “I have a weak wrist.”
Hanchi motioned at the Korean guy, who stalked toward Tomohiro and yanked the wristband off his arm, revealing the stitched-up gash along his wrist for all of them to gape at. It was pink aroun
d the edges, crisscrossed by the dozens of other cuts and scars that trailed up his arm.
“Those kendo injuries?” the Korean guy sneered.
“I’m a cutter,” Tomohiro said through gritted teeth. “I have entrance exams coming up. It’s stressful. You do the math.”
Hanchi laughed. “Sorry, Yuu,” he said. “We’re not buying it. I heard from Ishikawa you used to be quite the artist in the day. Let’s start with something simple.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wallet. He spread the leather and flipped through, the bills slicking against each other as he pulled one out. He bent over the table and spread the ten thousand yen at the top of the pad. “Draw this,” he said. “If you can do it, you can keep it. My gift to you.”
“I can’t draw,” said Tomohiro.
The Korean guy pulled a gun from his back and slowly lifted it to me. My heart drummed in my ears.
“Can you draw now?” Hanchi said.
Tomohiro stared for a minute, his fists shaking.
“If you’re not a Kami, then why is it a problem?” asked Hanchi.
The Korean guy cocked the gun.
“Shit, Yuuto, draw the damn bill!” Ishikawa shouted. I looked over at his swollen face, riddled with blue-and-yellow bruises. He looked so defeated, so small among these punks.
Tomohiro’s fingers slid along the paper until they reached the pen. He closed them gently around it, lifting it upright to draw.
It’s worth my life, but it isn’t worth yours.
“Tomo, don’t draw,” I whispered.
He didn’t answer. And then his hand slid across the page, the patchwork of scars gliding along the table edge as we watched, his secret exposed to everyone.
He sketched slowly, looking from the bill to the page. Beads of sweat trailed down his forehead and clung to his bangs. I knew he was trying to control the ink, to disguise what he was. But with me beside him, he didn’t have a chance.
He shaded in the details, sketching in the two pheasants on the back of the note. I saw the edges of the bill flicker, almost move. He hesitated for a minute, his head falling forward and his bangs fanning into his eyes. Then he shook them out and kept shading.
The corner of the sketch was curling up, the way the real bill did. The pheasants starting flicking their heads around, pecking at the ground.
