Chapter 15: Dessert Like Gold

—Because sometimes happiness tastes like sugar, and you’re the fool who pays in blood.

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The hotel lounge looked like a place that hated people like me.

Marble floors polished enough to show you how broke you are. Chandeliers hanging like overpriced glass threats. Men in suits that probably cost more than my rent — which is impressive, considering I haven’t paid rent in three months.

I walked in with Yume on my arm, pretending like I belonged. Spoiler: I didn’t. The maître d’ looked at me the way cops look at stray dogs — all polite disgust. But then Yume smiled. And, just like that, the guy melted faster than my bank account after a fight night.

“Reservation?” he asked.

I handed him a card Jin gave me, the one that screams fake it till you die trying. He checked, nodded, and led us to a table by the window.

The city stretched outside like a graveyard of lights. For a second, I wondered how much of this view costs. Then I remembered I didn’t care.

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Yume sat across from me, her white dress soft against the crimson leather chair. Her fingers traced the rim of the water glass like she was playing an invisible piano.

“This place sounds expensive,” she said, smile curling at the edges.

“It is,” I replied, because lying about that seemed pointless.

“You hate it, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

She laughed. It was small, but it reached me like sunlight through smoke.

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The waiter showed up with menus. French names I couldn’t pronounce, prices that could kill a man faster than Ranmaru’s fists.

“We’ll take the ‘Imperial Gold Soufflé,’” I said, because why not go bankrupt in style?

The waiter nodded and disappeared, leaving behind the faint scent of judgment.

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When the dessert arrived, I almost laughed. It wasn’t a soufflé. It was an ego. Gold flakes everywhere. A chocolate crown. A plate that probably had a LinkedIn profile.

Yume tilted her head, listening as the waiter set it down like he was delivering a baby.

“This,” she said slowly, “smells… ridiculous.”

“It looks worse,” I said.

“Describe it.”

“It’s… brown. With… shiny gold stuff.”

She grinned. “Wow. Stunning. The artistry. The passion. You should write for food magazines.”

“Shut up.”

She picked up her spoon and dug in, taking a bite like she was tasting a secret. Then she laughed — a soft, surprised sound.

“It’s good,” she said. “Too good. Like… unfair good.”

“Gold doesn’t taste like anything,” I muttered.

“Then what’s the point?”

“Status.”

“Do I look like royalty now?” she teased, tilting her head.

“Sure,” I said, and for the first time in… I don’t know how long, my mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

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For a while, we ate in silence. Well, she ate. I just watched. Watched the way her fingers curled around the spoon, the way her blind eyes softened when she laughed.

And then she said it — soft, casual, like she was throwing a stone into a bottomless well:

“You’ve been fighting again.”

My chest tightened. “What makes you say that?”

“You move different,” she said. Her voice wasn’t teasing now. “Like everything hurts.”

I didn’t answer. Just kept staring at the gold flakes melting into nothing.

“Why?” she asked.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

I looked at her then — really looked. And for the first time, I wanted to tell her everything. About the ring. The blood. The way every punch feels like a prayer screamed into the void.

But then she smiled again, soft and small, like the world was still worth loving. And I couldn’t ruin that. Not yet.

So I lied the only way I know how: with silence.

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When the soufflé was gone and the bill was paid (thanks, future debt), we walked out into the night. The city wind was cold, slicing through my jacket like paper.

Yume held my arm, her steps light. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“For making me feel like a queen.”

I almost said something stupid then. Something like you already are. But I swallowed it, let it burn on the way down, and kept walking.

Because words are cheap. And I was already paying in blood.

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