NICOLE
The steam rose around me, fogging the mirrors and clinging to my skin like a ghost. I stepped into the bath, the water scalding hot. I didn't even flinch as it lapped against my ankles. A dull, satisfying pain was better than feeling nothing at all.
I sank deeper, the water stinging the fresh bruises and cuts, a thousand tiny needles reminding me I was still alive. I leaned back, my breath catching, and looked down at my body. Pale, too thin. A map of two years of hell. And there, just below my left breast, was the mark. The number. 86.
The steam seemed to thicken, the bathroom fading away. The heat of the water wasn't the water anymore. It was a memory, burning its way back to the surface.
Flashback
(The concrete was icy against my bare back. Four men held me down, their hands like iron bands on my wrists and ankles. I'd stopped screaming. It never helped. It only made them laugh. The air smelled of rust and sweat and fear. My fear.
Then he walked in. A boy. Not much older than me. Maybe seventeen. He had a smile on his face, easy and bright, like he was walking into a party. He was handsome, with warm brown eyes that should have been kind.
"Is this the one who fought back?" he asked, his voice light, curious. One of the men grunted a yes, tightening his grip on my arm.
The boy—I heard someone call him Shuya—nodded, that smile never slipping. He held out his hand, and one of the men placed a long, thin metal rod into it. The end glowed a faint, angry red from the portable furnace they'd brought in.
My heart tried to hammer its way out of my chest. I thrashed, a final, useless burst of energy. The men just laughed, holding me tighter.
Shuya knelt beside me. He didn't look at my face. He just studied my rib cage, like an artist choosing a canvas. His smile was still there, placid, pleasant. He didn't say a word to me. No taunts, no threats. That was the worst part. The utter lack of feeling.
He placed the tip of the rod against my skin.
The sizzle was a sound I felt in my teeth. The smell of my own burning flesh filled my nose. A scream tore from my throat, a raw, ragged thing I didn't even recognize as my own. The pain was absolute, white-hot and consuming. Through the blur of tears, I saw his face. He wasn't smiling anymore. He wasn't frowning either. His expression was… focused. Concentrated. Like he was carefully writing his name.
He held it there for a lifetime before pulling it away. The men finally let go, and I curled into a ball, sobbing, the new, searing brand on my ribs screaming into the cold air.
Shuya stood up, handing the rod back to one of his men. He glanced down at me, at his work. And then the smile returned, easy as you please.
"Eighty-six," he said, as if confirming an order. Then he turned and walked out, whistling.)
Present Day
I jolted back to the present, gasping. The bathwater was still hot, but I was shivering. I touched the raised, ugly scar on my ribs. It wasn't just a number. It was him. Shuya. A monster with a sunny smile.
And now I was in a house with another monster, one with eyes of ice instead of fire. One brand had been burned into my skin. The other was just beginning to be burned into my soul.
I slid under the water, letting it close over my head, wanting the steam and the heat to swallow me whole. But no matter how long I stayed under, the memory, and the mark, remained.
The bathwater had gone from scalding to lukewarm, but getting out felt like leaving the only shield I had. I wrapped myself in a towel, the soft fabric feeling alien against my clean skin, and stepped back into the bedroom.
And froze.
Nemu was there, sitting cross-legged on the futon as if she owned it. She looked up from her phone, a quick, easy smile appearing. "Oh, good, you're out! So, what would you like to eat? You can have anything. Seriously, anything."
The question was so strange, so utterly normal, that it felt like a joke. Food? After everything? A sound almost escaped my throat—not quite a laugh, more a stunned puff of air. I just stared at her.
She gestured to a small pile of clothes folded neatly on a chair. "I brought you these. Shorts and a t-shirt. I know it's not a kimono, but I thought it might feel more... American?" She said the last word with a playful wink, trying to lighten a mood so heavy it felt like lead.
I didn't move. I was still stuck on the food question. Anything?
Nemu's smile didn't falter. She just waited, her head tilted. "So?" she prompted, her tone gentle but persistent.
She was serious. She was actually waiting for an answer. The concept was so foreign it took me a full minute to process. Slowly, hesitantly, I walked to the chair and picked up the clothes. The fabric was soft cotton. I turned my back to her and changed quickly, the simple act of putting on clean, normal clothes feeling like a rebellion.
When I turned around, Nemu was still watching me, her expression patient.
"I... I don't know," I whispered. The words were hoarse, barely audible.
But Nemu heard them. Her face lit up as if I'd just delivered a brilliant speech. "You don't know! Of course you don't know! Okay, let me tell you," she said, her voice bubbling over with sudden energy. She launched into a rapid-fire list, counting on her fingers. "We have amazing ramen, the broth is like heaven. Or sushi, but maybe that's too weird for a first night? There's katsu curry, which is like comfort in a bowl, or yakitori, which are these little grilled chicken skewers... Oh! Or we could do something simple like omurice, it's rice wrapped in an egg blanket, it's so good..."
She was a waterfall of words, her hands flying as she described each dish. The quiet, careful girl from before was gone, replaced by a blabbing, enthusiastic fountain of information. She finally concluded with a decisive nod. "You know what? I'll just bring you a bit of everything. A tasting menu! Then you'll know what you like for next time."
She hopped off the bed, still talking about desserts as she headed for the door. "I'll be right back! Don't go anywhere!"
The door slid shut, and I was left standing alone in the middle of the room, wide-eyed. The silence she left behind was ringing. The sudden, dramatic change in her demeanor was overwhelming, like a spotlight had been switched on in a dark room. It was too much. It was confusing.
But for the first time in years, the thing twisting in my stomach wasn't just fear. It was a tiny, fragile spark of something else. Bewilderment, maybe. But something
The sound surprised even me. A soft, breathy chuckle. "What a weirdo," I muttered to the empty room. Then my hand flew to my mouth. I... I just laughed. It wasn't much, but it was real.
The sound felt strange in my throat, like a muscle I hadn't used in years.
A few minutes later, I was still sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting. I heard voices before the door slid open. Nemu came in first, beaming, followed by Tokito, who was carrying a huge, heavily laden tray that Nemu clearly would have struggled to lift on her own.
"...and she spoke," Nemu was telling him, her voice buzzing with excitement. "It was low, but she did! I told you!"
Tokito shot me a look, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners with a genuine smile. "Yeah? Progress." He set the tray down on the low table.
The smell that rose from it was incredible—savory, sweet, salty—a symphony of scents that made my stomach clench with a hunger I'd forgotten I could feel.
Nemu immediately knelt by the table, gesturing for me to join her. "Okay, so this is karaage—it's like Japanese fried chicken, you can just use your hands. This is miso soup, careful, it's hot. And this," she said, pointing to a bowl of rice and another with what looked like bite-sized pieces of food, "is for the chopsticks."
For the next little while, they talked. Tokito made easy jokes about the chefs, and Nemu blabbed about every dish. It was a constant, friendly noise that didn't demand anything from me.
When a question came my way—"Do you like chicken?"—I had to think about it. The answer felt buried under layers of survival. I'd give a tiny nod or a quiet "yes" or "no."
Then Nemu picked up the chopsticks. "Here, let me show you. It's tricky at first." She demonstrated, her fingers holding the sticks with practiced ease. "You just hold this one still, like a pencil, and move the top one." She handed them to me.
My fingers felt clumsy and thick. I fumbled, dropping a piece of vegetable. I flinched, expecting... something. A laugh? A comment?
"Almost!" Nemu said, her voice encouraging. "Try again. It's all about practice."
Tokito just grinned. "Took me forever to learn. I still sometimes stab my food like a caveman when no one's looking."
I tried again. And again. On the third try, I managed to pinch a piece of chicken and lift it shakily to my mouth. The flavor exploded on my tongue—crispy, juicy, perfectly seasoned. It was the best thing I had ever tasted.
A small, almost silent "thank you" slipped out.
Nemu's eyes lit up like I'd given her a gift. "You're welcome!"
And for the first time, sitting on that soft floor with a full belly and the sound of friendly chatter around me, the knot in my chest loosened, just a little. I was still scared. I was still confused. But for a few minutes, I was also just a girl, learning to use chopsticks.