Where you and I really feel the same

“Didn’t expect you here so early.”

Oyama’s words greet me before I even notice him, a shadow beneath the torii. Wearing an olive jinbei, I guess even someone as rotund as he can be invisible against a background of black pines and mossy stones. I approach with care, and when I breach into the shrine’s holy ground, two things stand out. One, he’s here unaccompanied, and two –

“What’s with the cane?” The handiwork is impressive, bordering on masterful. The shaft is a long and twisted piece of sandalwood, whilst the handle is an ornate dragon’s head, gleaming silver as it catches the moonlight, filtered through thinning clouds.

“I’m an old man,” Oyama says. “Can’t get around as easily anymore.”

“I thought leaders like you had to seem strong, undefeatable,” I snide. “Isn’t this showing weakness?”

“Only the weak hide their flaws. And I’m not scared to admit my own. Are you?”

There’s reprove in his voice, one so light it dissolves into the gentle breeze. Without any gesture, he starts up the street, his surreptitious silence beckoning me to come with. Frowning, I acquiesce and follow right behind him.

Soon, it becomes apparent that we’ll be walking a while, crossing the cosy streets of downtown Narashino. Following the railway towards, then past Keisei-Tsudanuma, we veer left at the first boulevard, then keep going and going with no clear end in sight.

“Why did you call me here?” I as, as we venture further and further from streets with working streetlights. Before long, chipped planks start boarding up windows, whilst broken glass and crumpled cans start littering the pavement.

“To have a little chat,” Oyama says. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

“If that was it, couldn’t we have called?”

“I prefer talking face to face. Makes it easier to tell the lies from the truth.”

“Is this about the job?” Tension tightens my throat, dries and knots my tongue. “I know I failed my last assignment, but I’ll do better. I swear I won’t –”

Oyama prods me with his cane. Smirks. “Are you always this easy to unsettle?” he chuckles. “Relax.”

“You saying that only stresses me out more.”

“Good thing we’re going somewhere fun, then. Maybe you’ll calm down after a drink or two.”

“Drink?”

I slow to a halt; Oyama trudges on, unabated. Biting my lip, I wonder – is this a part of his test? So far, neither he nor Hinata have told me anything about the mission, but it’s not hard to realise that, one way or another, it revolves around Ichika’s parents’ art auction. Her inviting me to the reception was an unexpected boon – whereas failure to procure a waiter’s uniform was an unwelcome setback. One resounding success, one critical blunder. And now, I feel I have a chance to tip the scales in my favour.

“You coming?” Oyama asks from afar, ready to turn the corner. I catch up to him in an instant, then never fall behind again.

We take a sharp turn on an alley tucked between a closed down restaurant and a middle-class nail salon, continuing through the narrow path until we arrive at a small, black door with an unassuming sign above it. Club 22 in white, latin letters. Inside, Oyama ferries me through a dim corridor, then down a tight, circular staircase, the sounds of poorly sung karaoke getting less muffled – and more grating by the second. From the bottom, there’s a small kink, a bit of an incline, then not one, but two sets of curtains and – we’re in.

Pretentiousness doesn’t hang, nor hover – it lavishes in the atmosphere. Everything’s black – the sofas, the bar with its stools and counter, the matte paint on the ceiling, the smooth carpets on the floor – with the only contrast coming in the form of luxe, esoteric patterns criss-crossing ever so garishly above ostentatious chandeliers. To the left, there’s a stage with three people singing on it – two women in red bodycons whose ages combined are probably half that of the drunk salaryman roaring into the microphone.

The bartender notices us – or rather, he sees Oyama – and signals towards a waitress. She’s with us in a moment, another young woman, with fishnet thigh highs to distract from her crow’s feet.

“Your booth has been prepared as you wanted, Oyama-sama,” she bows. “Should I bring you the usual?”

Oyama shakes his head, “No drinks for tonight. As for food – are you hungry?” he turns to me.

“I’m good,” I reply, the pit in my stomach growing.

“Snacks will do then,” Oyama smiles and with yet another bow, the waitress takes us away. She guides us through an arch right of the main area, where booths are laid in long lines with frilly, privacy drapes between them. Our seats are all the way at the back, segregated from the rest of the customers by a fully empty row.

As soon as we lie down, the waitress returns with a pitcher and two tall glasses – strawberry daiquiris, judging by colour and thickness.

“I thought you said no drinks,” I point out.

“No liquor, son,” Oyama takes a sip. The corners of his mouth twitch a flitting smile. “Incredible. Tastes good even without the rum. Try it.”

“I’m good,” I squirm, the leather sticking to my sweat-slicked back and legs. It’s yet another layer to add to my discomfort, owed primarily to the suffocating ambience and Oyama’s uncanny presence.

Looking at him, I don’t see a man, but a symbol. An omen of bad tidings, a personification of the ruling class of Japan’s underbelly. His control is total, his manners clumsy, yet pristine and his stare mesmerising and shrewd – and pointed right at me; I feel it in my soul.

“So,” he caresses his stubble, “I heard you confessed to my daughter.”

His tone is amicable and sweet, but that only helps to hide the sharp edge underneath.

“She told you?” I stutter.

“Didn’t have to. Your calls are all recorded, remember? Then again, I don’t make it a point to listen to them – unless you give me a reason,” Oyama leans back, tips his chin up. “Before yesterday, she’s never been sad after talking to you. Quite the opposite, actually.”

“What do you want from me?” I snap. His gamesmanship terrified me back when we first met – now it’s just irritating. “I’m trying – I’m really trying to help out, to ensure the success of your mission. All for a fucking test. What more can I do? Give it to me straight and I’ll do it.”

“Oh,” Oyama chuckles. “But where’s the fun in that?”

“You piece of –”

“What do you think I’m testing you for, boy?”

The lounge music dies out. The air grows cold and taut. There’s a spark in Oyama’s squint, a bright and scary cunning.

“Well?” he asks, demanding without demanding, forcing me to rationalise actions I never cared to think back on, let alone parse the meaning of. And seeing how it’s a race against his quickly dwindling patience, I blurt out the first answer that pops into my head.

“Because I caught her. Because I fought her and won the fight.”

“Please, that’s what you’ve been telling yourself?” Oyama scoffs a dry laugh. “Don’t get me wrong, she’s skilled – but she’s just a sprig off a girl. Kisaki is our enforcer; defeating Hinata proves nothing.”

“Then – it’s because of that night. Because she and I managed to talk you out of killing me.”

“Close, but no cigar. If for no other reason that was never my intention.”

“Lies.”

“I never lie,” Oyama chimes, gaze growing pensive, tone mellowing out. “Your practical skills are useless to me. You aren’t meant to schmooze, to steal, to beat people up. If anything, you failed every time you tried doing any of that.

“You know the upcoming heist?”

“Heist?”

“We’re planning on replacing a painting at the upcoming auction with a good ersatz. The original, we’ll see on the black market. The rich won’t care for the difference, and the real connoisseurs will shell out a fortune.

“Hinata said that,” Oyama states matter-of-factly. “She came up with the idea, planned our approach, then executed it – almost all on her own. And she’s done a stellar job to include you as well – against her better judgement, but in tune with my wishes.”

“Luca?” Hinata asks, spawning out of nowhere and stopping by our table. If I didn’t hear her speak just now, I wouldn’t have recognised her. In a red one-piece, so tight it yells on her, with her hair done up and a full face of makeup – the eyeshadow dark and the lipstick bright – she looks five years my senior and not a second older.

“Hinata? What a delightful surprise,” Oyama says.

“You scheduled my shift tonight, dad,” Hinata mumbles. “One of the councilmen is here, remember?”

“They are? They are. Sorry, must’ve forgotten. This old mind’s not what it used to be, y’know?”

“Why are you two here, then?”

“Just thought I’d give Luca a little pep talk before the mission,” Oyama says glibly. “Wednesday is just around the corner, after all. And speaking of around the corner –”

From a booth at the other end of the private area comes a lascivious leer attached to a slimy, pencil-pushing man with a grizzled five o’clock shadow and a superior smirk. Just looking at him from a distance gives me goosebumps of disgust, whereas Hinata – sighs. Tired and resigned to her fate.

“On it,” she says, starting towards her client with a bespoke sway to her hips. Flirtatious, but gawky, as if unused to the motions of seduction. Watching her leave gets my blood boiling without any hint of heat.

“What the fuck?” I ask Oyama, all but raring to claw at his smug expression. “She’s a minor.”

“She wanted to do this,” comes his reply. Infuriatingly simple.

“And you let her?”

“Yes. I am a father, after all. Helplessly weak to my daughter’s demands. That’s where you and I really feel the same. And where we don’t – now that’s what makes you special. Why I – why Hinata needs you.”

For once, genuine emotion bleeds into his face. A deep, pithy apprehension towards tonight, towards his club, himself. Pained, he turns to the side, unable to meet my gaze, nor seek his adoptive child’s. And finally – I get it.

His motives are unclear, but their vehicle is not. I understand now that Oyama has and always will remain ruthlessly greedy, if not for material gains, then for his own selfish, toying whims. And while they aren’t related, Hinata still inherited so much from him – cleverness in mischief, a pathological disdain towards clarity and, above all, drive. Only hers, owing to her background and the tragedy of her upbringing, changed – mutated into an affliction, a stringent will to do and die for the sake of doing.

It’s where we’re the same, she and I, but also where we differ. Sure, we’ll both make sacrifices for the sake of our personal convictions – only she sees the gesture as righteous, noble and generous, even. While I see it as the mistake she’s been making for way too long.

The one that stops tonight.