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When a wolf leaves the pack, the chances of survival are immediately stacked against them. There are only two things that regularly compel a wolf to leave behind the safety of greater numbers: life and death. Wolves who are seeking a mate leave to begin their own pack. And a weak and dying leader who has been deposed will strike out on their own to answer the call of mortality.
Sakamoto Ryoma left the Wolves of Mibu for the first reason.
Okita Soji left for the second.
“Ya want me to come with ya?” Shinpa-chan blocked his way, his brow furrowed in concern.
“Nah. Just goin’ for a walk. Gotta stretch the ol’ legs. I’ll see ya tonight.”
He hated lying to his sworn brother. Okita wasn’t a soothsayer, of course. He couldn’t be sure the end was near. But it felt like it was. And that hunch made him certain that he had to go on this last journey alone.
A wolf only leaves their pack for two reasons.
He didn’t blame Ryoma for leaving. Oryo was a good match for him, and it was obvious she loved him. He was fairly certain that Ryoma loved her, too. It wasn’t his business, though. He had no claim over the heart of Sakamoto Ryoma. The Captain of the Third Division had done what society expected of him - damn him and his noble moral compass. While nobody batted an eye if two samurai were romantically involved, there was a growing sentiment that a man should take a wife to carry on his family line as his duty to the country. As far as Okita knew, Oryo had never borne Ryoma any children. He hadn’t kept in touch. Any man could reach for a pot on a hot stove and burn his hand, but only a great fool would keep his hand on the pot while his flesh blistered.
A coughing fit stopped him, and he paused to rest under a large tree whose branches overhung the road out of Edo. He wasn’t sure where he was going. Did it matter where he was going?
Away. That was all that mattered. He gasped for air, gulping for it like a great pallid fish until the spasms subsided. How many more times would he be locked in battle with his own body before the illness that had taken him emerged victorious? He’d tried all the pills the apothecary had to offer. He’d adopted a black cat, which he’d heard was rumored to help the symptoms. It hadn’t - but the companionship had been pleasant.
Poor Kuro-chan. Well, it wasn’t as if she’d be left to languish. While the cat tolerated Okita and was affectionate with him, it was clear that she favored Shinpa-chan. She would be well taken care of.
With a grunt, Okita stood and strode off the worn dirt path into the tall growth of trees. It was beautiful here, with the sun dappling his white skin through the verdant canopy above him. The last time the embrace of nature had surrounded him was when he’d confessed his feelings to Ryoma. He’d spun him and kissed him with an artless hunger, and then, uncertain of how these things usually went, he’d expressed himself as honestly as he could.
“I’d die for ya. Ya know, I would. If it’d make ya happy, I’d rip my heart out and throw it at yer feet still beating.”
The words weren’t romantic, but they were his. They were genuine.
Ryoma had stayed silent for a moment and then slowly began, “Okita-no-niisan.” As soon as the words left his lips, he knew that their love for each other was very different. While Okita’s burned bright and ravenous like a flame, Ryoma’s was steady and constant like the moon. Tender. Familial. Not the ardent passion romance.
If he were a worse man, he’d have threatened, cajoled, possibly even begged. But he hadn’t. He’d stood by Sakamoto Ryoma unconditionally. Wished him well. Even encouraged his relationship with Oryo. Anything to see him happy because when that smile lit up Ryoma-chan’s face, it brought a warmth and peace to Okita’s soul that nothing had ever given him. Not Kondo. Not Shinpa-chan. It had been Sakamoto’s gift alone, and he had relished every smile he’d seen, secreting them away to replay in his head as he lay awake at night.
He began coughing again, but it wasn’t a prolonged fit this time. It was short and sharp, making him wince, and without thinking, he swiped at his mouth with the sleeve of his haori to wipe away the blood that he instinctively knew was there. He was sure that by now, there was as much of his blood as that of his enemies on his sleeves. It didn’t matter. Nobody knew but him.
It won’t matter at all soon.
The sun was beginning to dip past its zenith now. He thought he must've been walking for quite a while but couldn't be sure since he didn't recall what time he'd set out. It was difficult to tell how much of his exhaustion was the passage of time and how much was from his illness. In spite of the canopy of trees, the summer heat was palpably thick, and combined with the moisture of recent rains, it felt like sitting in a sauna. The sweltering, still air made the already cumbersome task of breathing even more taxing, and Okita longed for the cool of an autumn he’d never see.
Up ahead, crows cawed and launched into the canopy of trees in a flurry of black to take refuge on nearby branches. He scanned the tree line for a disturbance but saw nothing that could have upset the feathered sentinels, who now gathered in one particularly large tree near the jagged black rocks of the cliff that rose up on his right. As he approached the tree, the birds fell silent and regarded him with their beady black eyes.
“Whaddaya lookin’ at?” he grumbled up at the crows, who simply stared back at him expectantly.
“I ain’t dead yet. Gonna have to wait a bit.”
His one-sided argument with the birds was interrupted by a flash of white in the corner of his peripheral vision. High above him and further along the cliffs, he’d seen something or someone move. He squinted into the distance and was surprised to see a woman in a white kimono step from behind a tree to the cliff’s edge.
“Hey!”
The woman gave no sign of hearing him, simply staring over the edge of the precipice.
“Hey! Yer gonna fall. Get away from there.”
She did not acknowledge him and, to his horror, stretched her arms out as if longing to take flight, plunging forward over the cliff's edge. She didn't cry out, and his view of where she landed was obscured by the undergrowth, but he could hear the sound of the impact from where he stood, and it didn’t sound good.
“Fuck!”
Pulling from the last of his reserves of strength, he bolted forward through the patches of thorny green that stood between him and the woman. He desperately rifled through the undergrowth, thorns catching at the skin of his fingers, but there was no sign of her. Not even snapped branches crushed under the weight of her body.
“What the hell….” He bent and rested his hands on his knees, panting heavily as he surveyed his surroundings. He was sure he was in the right place, but the woman in white was nowhere to be seen.
A chill went down Okita’s back. He’d heard tales of spirits before, but he’d never been given a reason to believe them. And yet now, he suddenly felt cold from head to toe in spite of the summer heat. His throat was dry, and he found himself wishing he’d thought to bring water with him. As he moved to rest his hand on his sword, he was surprised to find it was shaking on the blade's pommel.
Well, surely that was an understandable reaction given what he'd just witnessed. Anyone would be unnerved by a ghost. He’d heard tales of dying men seeing their ancestors and lost loved ones appearing before them as their time drew near. Perhaps that was what he'd seen?
However, the explanation held no comfort because Okita hadn’t recognized the woman. There weren’t a great number of women in his life who he could imagine appearing before him in any case.
No. This felt like something malevolent as if he’d witnessed something that was meant neither for his eyes nor this world. Something that was….behind him. Years of living his life balanced on a sword’s edge between peace and chaos had given him a preternatural sense of when he wasn’t alone.
Okita Soji was definitely not alone.
His breathing quickened, ragged from exertion and illness. He should be able to turn around. He’d confronted countless foes in his life. What was one more? And yet, he found himself completely unable to move. The intensity of the dread was staggering. Something was behind him that he dared not face. And whatever it was, it seemed perfectly content to wait. If it were an assassin, he’d be dead many times over by now. No, this was something still and silent, biding its time and waiting for the opportunity to make its presence known.
Okita found himself locked in a battle of mind over matter. His mind told him to just turn around because there was nothing behind him except the shiny black rocks of the cliff. His body told him that doing so would doom him.
Ain’t got much life left to doom, I suppose.
The gallows humor brought no measure of comfort. He remained rooted to the spot. And then the moment was shattered as a crow let out a long, loud croak, and the sound spurred him into action.
Drawing his sword, he spun to face the threat. And just as his mind had predicted, there was nothing behind him except for the cliff. No, wait, there was something there. Almost entirely hidden by the overgrowth of plants, there was a distinct gap between the rocks of the cliff, just wide enough for a man to fit through. He wasn’t sure why he did it - it was almost as if his feet acted under a will of their own, but he approached the gap, crunching through the brush as he went. Leaning heavily against the face of the cliff, he peered into the blackness. In the scarce light it appeared that the rocks opened up into a larger space just past the entrance. And there was something at the back of the cave that he could barely see in the thin, golden sliver of sun that trickled in.
Before he knew what he was doing, he found himself turning sideways to press through the opening into the cool, quiet of the crevice.
The space did indeed open up just past the entrance, and he was able to turn so that he could walk normally instead of scuttling sideways like a crab.
Okita paused to let his eye adjust to the darkness. No matter how bad his condition might be, he wasn’t interested in the idea of hastening his end by stumbling blindly into a chasm or knocking himself senseless.
The cave was cool and damp compared to the unbearable summer heat and was made of the same dark rocks as the cliffs outside, punctuated by occasional strips of stark white.
Wait.
Okita shuffled up to the wall of the cave, squinting. Those weren’t white rocks; those were ofuda. The cave was plastered in the paper talismans, most within arm’s reach of a man but some much higher. Someone had clearly been determined in their task. The papers became more frequent further back in the cave, and he shivered as he realized that he was not, in fact, looking at a wall of rocks but at the moldering remains of a shrine. A simple shinmei torii loomed up into the darkness, quietly standing guard; a rotting rope covered in withered shide hung from it. And set back from the gate was a small shrine cobbled together from wood and stone. It, too, was covered in ofuda.
He approached the structure cautiously and saw that the inner doors of the shrine hung loose on their hinges, the mirror inside split down the center in a single jagged line. He yelped in surprise as he saw his own pale form reflected back in the broken disc and a figure dressed in white just behind him.
“You are either very brave or very foolish to have come here.”
The hairs on his neck stood on end.
“Or you simply cannot read. Tell me. Which is it?”
Okita spun to face the source of the voice, but no one was behind him.
“Do you speak? Has your tongue been cleaved from your mouth?” The voice was near the shrine now, and his eyes darted about, looking for the source.
“What the fuck?”
Laughter bounced off the walls of the cave, reverberating and growing until even the echoes were chased away.
“Is that any way to address a lady?”
This time, his eye was drawn to a dark corner just beyond the shrine, where he could barely make out the slim form of the figure dressed entirely in white. It moved toward him, and he rested his hand on the grip of the Kiku-Ichimonji, ready to draw. The figure approached, and he watched warily. It was the woman he had seen before, beyond a doubt. Her snow-white kimono brushed along the floor of the cave, and her long dark hair obscured her face.
“Who are ya?” he asked, his voice sounding more certain than he felt.
“Again, shouldn’t I be the one asking that? You’re the one who sought me out.”
“I saw…I mean, I thought I saw…”
“My death? Yes. You did.”
“What are ya then, an onryo?”
“No.” Saying this, she raised her face, and the weak light of the outside world caught a pair of horns and fierce teeth.
“An oni?”
“A hannya.”
Okita watched as she swept noiselessly towards him, skirting around a large rock near the edge of the shrine. He kept his hand readied on his sword, but he found his other raised, ready to reach out. To do what he wasn’t sure. To touch her, perhaps. To see if she truly existed.
“Do you find me beautiful?”
“What kinda question is that?”
“A question a lady would ask when a man has stumbled into her home uninvited.”
“So ya live here then?”
“Yes. Not by choice, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
She gestured to the paper-covered walls of the cave and shrine.
“Are those meant to keep ya here?”
“Something like that,” she replied airily. “How good of a job they do, I can’t say. I would call them a silly human superstition. But then again, if all superstitions were silly, then I would not be here.”
“And why are ya here?”
“Covetousness, I suppose. A hannya is a demon bound to the earth by their jealousy.”
He frowned, lost in thought, and she stood watching him.
“How long have ya been here exactly?”
She tilted her head as if considering. “A while. I am not sure. I do know that every day I am forced to relive my death as part of my penance. I have perished many times over.”
Wary as he was, he found her response pitiable. He wasn’t relishing the thought of dying once. Doing so every day was more than he could fathom.
A coughing fit overcame Okita, and he doubled over with it.
“You are ill.” It hadn’t been a question, and even if it had been, he was unable to answer through his gasping. He felt an icy hand on his arm and realized the demon was guiding him to sit on the rock near the shrine, and he was in no position to put up a fight. When at last he could speak again, he turned to address her.
“So if yer a demon, why ya bein’ kind to me then?”
“I suppose I would be repeating what is already known if I told you that you were gravely ill.”
“That ain’t an answer,” he rasped.
“You have been cursed with the Corpse Disease1 by one whose blood you have spilled and now wear as a trophy. That very blood now steals your breath as payment.”
“Still ain’t an answer.”
“I want to be sure you understand the gravity of your situation before I continue.”
He coughed again and wiped away another bloody string of saliva.
“I would like to propose something. A pact, if you will.”
He arched an eyebrow at her, afraid to speak, and set off another fit.
“I would like to join you. As you have guessed, I seem to be bound here. You are free to leave.”
“Lady…I hate to tell ya, but the way I’m feelin’, I don’t think I’m leavin’.”
“I am aware of that. Hence, my end of the deal. I will ease your death so that you do not suffer. And when your soul is reborn, you will serve as a …host of sorts.”
Okita eyed her suspiciously. “A host? I don’t follow ya. So are ya sayin’ my next self wouldn’t have a soul of his own? It’d just be you?”
“I do not know. I have not undertaken something like this before, so I cannot say if my presence would mean an absence of your soul or if it means they would coexist.”
“Coexist?”
“Think of it as something akin to a haunting. Surely, you have heard tales of humans who are bound to yokai.”
He’d heard the tales alright, and they sounded downright unpleasant.
“No deal.”
“Hmm…suit yourself then. I must warn you that death is not an easy passage.”
“In case ya hadn’t noticed….been sort of makin’ death my business for a while.” Saying this, he gestured at his sword.
“Even warriors may find the end of life to be a trial. There is no shame in that. The true trial is that you must embrace your final moments in peace. If your soul is tormented by malice or lingering regrets, then you may find yourself cursed as well.”
Okita weighed his options. If he stayed, it seemed the spirit was hellbent on bartering for his soul. However, he felt too weak to stand, and he was certain that leaving the cave was out of the question. And much as talking exhausted him, it seemed like the best way to preoccupy the hannya.
“Ya keep talkin’ about my death…how about you ?”
“You wish to know why I died?”
“Yeah.”
“As I’ve said, I was consumed by jealousy. And you have seen the result of those actions.”
“So what made ya that jealous?”
“A man.”
Okita had a cutting remark ready in response about how no man could be worth that sacrifice, but his thoughts flitted to Ryoma, and the words died in his mouth. “What was he like?”
“I remember so little of him, which I suppose is part of the curse. I do remember he was extraordinary. Fierce. Charismatic. Our love was not allowed because of the order of things.” She turned, and her cold, dark eyes bored into him like a dagger pressed to flesh. “Perhaps you have met someone not unlike him.”
“I have.”
“You are fortunate. What was he like?”
“Just like ya said. Fierce. Charismatic. Loyal.”
“If he were as loyal as you’d say, I’d think he’d be here by your side.”
Okita chuckled darkly. “Yeah, well, he can’t cause he’s gone.”
“He no longer lives?”
“No. Last year. Fuckin’ cowards murdered him without a fair fight. Took him by surprise.”
The hannya seated herself close to him, and he fought the urge to shift away from her.
“Is that why you do not find me attractive then?”
“Haw?”
“The way your eyes shine when you speak of him. It sounds as if your feelings for him go beyond those of esteem. Do you despise women?” 2
“Naw, I don’t despise women. They just..ain’t my thing.”
“You have only ever felt love for men.”
“S’pose so.”
“I see. If you felt love for this man, why not pursue him?”
“I did. Kinda.”
“He did not return your affections?”
“He did just…not like that. Not in the same way. He-” Okita broke off, coughing. The hannya watched, still and patient.
“Think he thought…of me more….as a brother.”
“So he did not desire you romantically or carnally.”
“Guess not. He found himself a nice girl.” Speaking was becoming even more difficult, and he realized just how tired he was feeling. He couldn’t tell for sure, but in the dim light, it looked as if the tips of his fingers were turning blue. Okita was used to death’s kiss being delivered quickly and violently at the end of a blade. He wasn’t familiar with what death looked like in one who hadn’t been run through or shot, but he was sure that the shift in color was a portent of the end. It wouldn’t be long now.
“And you did not begrudge him this?”
“No. Just wanted him to be happy.”
The hannya snorted. “You are either a liar, or you have stronger resolve than I.”
Okita said nothing, just continued to stare at his hands, lost in thought. Could he have ever been jealous enough to be cursed? Possibly. He was sure as shit no saint. What would it have taken? A more obsessive love of Ryoma? It wasn’t hard to imagine that happening. He imagined experiencing an all-consuming longing that would compel him to stalk Ryoma to the ends of the earth. Perhaps he would have even laid claim to his life. Was he capable of such a thing? The reflection made him uncomfortable, and so he picked up the thread of conversation again, clinging to it as a lifeline.
“Why is it ya wanna leave so badly? Ya gonna go kill the guy that rejected ya?”
“Even if that were my wish, I would be unable to. I do not know how long I have been dead, but I certainly believe it has been longer than a human lifespan. The one I curse is long-gone.”
“If ya can’t kill the guy, then why do ya want to leave?”
“You misunderstand the nature of my existence. I am a creature of wrath incarnate. Subjecting one person to my rage is insufficient. I would have any who opposed me fall by my hand.”
Okita hummed thoughtfully. “So, yer end goal is just violence for its own sake?”
“I suppose so. Consider it another reason to consider my proposal. With my anger guiding your blade, I dare say no mere man could best you.”
He was worried to find himself thinking that her deal was sounding better by the minute. In fact, it sounded a little too good, and he returned to the line of questioning, hoping to find a reason to deter himself. “Say I did take ya up on this. What if my future self falls in love with someone? Are ya gonna make it into a violent obsession?”
“Again, I cannot answer that because I do not know. I feel, however, that your affections would be akin to a force of nature. They would have the potential to be all-consuming. What they consume has yet to be seen. You may be willing to die for them. You may also be willing to stalk the object of your affection to the ends of the earth. It may bring out the best in you. Or it may bring out the worst things imaginable. I believe your character as a man will determine what happens.”
“I ain’t exactly known to be a man that makes the best choices.”
“The goal of reincarnation is the growth of the soul, is it not? Let us hope for the sake of any you know that your next self exercises a bit more restraint.”
“Wouldn’t bet on it.” The discussion had been the deterrent he needed. His secret hope of hopes was that in the next world, he would be fated for Sakamoto Ryoma or the man he had been reborn as. He couldn’t inflict the horrors of this curse on him.
The weariness he felt continued to grow, pressing down on him and reducing his breathing to shallow gasps.
“Your time grows short. Are you sure you will not let me ease your passing?”
He shook his head weakly, and the hannya growled in frustration.
“I have waited so long to leave this place, and you would now deny me that chance? Men are selfish and cruel creatures.”
He merely grimaced.
“Are you trying to protect the world from my wrath? Is that it?”
Was he trying to? Was he that noble? No, surely not.
The hannya smiled cruelly as he slid to the floor, no longer able to support himself.
“Poor foolish man. Can you truly say you will die in peace? If you do not, your next life will be cursed. Make no mistake. One way or another, you WILL be my passage from this place.”
He was drowning on dry land, losing his final battle. Closing his eyes, he resolved himself to meet his end at peace. He would not let her win. And so he conjured a vision of the one thing that could make him feel that peace.
“There ya are….Ryoma…chan… ”
Sakamoto Ryoma was bathed in gold light. Smiling benevolently. Reaching a hand out that Okita desperately wanted to take.
“Nii-san…”
"Ya came for me. ”
Okita stretched as far as he could. Ryoma’s hand was so close. He could almost touch it.
And then it was violently jerked away.
“He didn’t come for you. ” He knew the voice was the voice of the demon, but it wore the face of Oryo. Poor sweet Oryo, whom he bore no ill will toward. Oryo, who now glared at him and coiled herself around Ryoma possessively, like a serpent, her body bending unnaturally to do so. Her neck was twisted grotesquely as if broken in a fall.
“Ryoma-chan ….”
“He isn’t yours.”
“Please… ”
“He was never yours.”
“Don’t take him from me…not now. Let me have this. Please. ”
A cold laugh was the only response.
Okita Soji died with his eyes wide open and a sneer of rage on his face.
—-------
Majima Goro stood fidgeting outside the plain wood door in front of him. The building was unremarkable and looked like it had been a house at one point - a simple white plaster building with dark wood trim and a small balcony taking up one corner of the second floor.
He’d been here once before, accompanied by Saejima. But today, he was alone as per the instructions, which had been folded several times over and crammed in his pocket.
After speaking with the Shimano family captain, he’d been given an address. “This is where Shimano family men go to get their irezumi done. Master Horitomo is a bit peculiar, but his work is unparalleled,” he’d been advised. Apparently, Sasai was also a fan of Horitomo because Saejima had been given the same address.
The initial meeting had been brief. The artist had spoken with each of them alone while the other sat on an uncomfortably hard chair in the building’s entry. They’d been asked a few questions about themselves so that Horitomo could "get a feeling for their measure as a person."
He’d done a quick sketch of each of their designs and showed it to them - not that it felt like there was room for changes if they disapproved. There was a finality to the transaction as if the man had seen to their very souls and would now brand them for life with a reflection of what lay within.
“You may go now. I will send instructions for your appointment to the address you’ve provided.” And with those words, they were ushered out the door, almost hurriedly.
True to his words, the instructions arrived at Saejima’s apartment three days later. The envelopes were not addressed, indicating that they must have been hand-delivered and bore only each of their names.
Majima had eagerly torn his open, excited to find out when his appointment was scheduled. His was next Wednesday, the day after Saejima’s.
“These rules are kinda funny, ain’t they?” Saejima scowled at the piece of paper in his hand, a plain white sheet with typewritten instructions on it. Saejima’s page began abruptly with a ragged torn edge, and Majima’s ended the same way, indicating that the instructions had probably been printed on the same piece of paper and then messily torn in half.
“Yeah, what the fuck is some of this?”
Saejima huffed in response. “Guess he’s one of those temperamental artist types that has to have everything just so.”
Majima scowled at the torn bottom edge of the paper. “I guess. Or maybe he’s helping the patriarchs to test us. Maybe they want to make sure we can follow orders.”
“S’pose so.”
Saejima came home from his appointment sporting the bold black outline of a tiger, teeth bared dramatically, and Majima had stared enviously.
“Don’t be too impatient, bro. Your turn tomorrow.”
He hoped his appointment went well because his day had started disastrously, and he was already in danger of breaking the first rule: Your appointment is scheduled to begin Wednesday at 9:33. You must arrive exactly seven minutes prior to that. You may enter through the front door precisely at your scheduled arrival time.
It all began to go wrong when he dropped his shaving mirror in the sink. By some stroke of luck, the glass broke into two large pieces rather than shattering, so at least cleanup was quick. Then he’d run for the station only to discover the train was late. When it finally arrived, he danced about nervously from foot to foot, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t be late. And the minute the doors opened, he was off like a bullet from a gun, racing through the streets to the house he now stood before. He’d arrived exactly two minutes before his scheduled arrival.
Glancing at his watch for what felt like the fiftieth time, he saw it was finally 9:26, so he knocked on the door three times and cautiously waited for a response.
None came.
Had he done something wrong? He pulled out the rumpled scrap of paper to double-check it.
Rule #2: Come alone. Well, he hadn’t had to worry about that one. Saejima had received the same set of rules. Rule #3: When you arrive, knock on the door three times. It didn’t say anything about waiting for a response. Maybe the knock was just to announce his presence, and he was meant to go in? He wished he’d asked Saejima more about his appointment, but there was no hope for it now. He finally reached a decision and settled his sweaty palm on the doorknob, which turned without resistance, and he stepped into the entryway.
Alright. Let’s see what else is on the list. Rule #4: Sit only in the middle chair in the entryway. Looking around, he counted three of the hard, uncomfortable chairs they’d sat in during their first meeting with the artist. Rule #5: Be sure to use the bathroom before your session begins. Your session will most likely be lengthy. It is the second door on the left, down the hall.
He didn’t feel like he needed to go, but he might as well try anyway. He would’ve died of shame if he’d left with a half-complete irezumi because he’d angered the master by needing to get up to have a piss.
In the dim light of the single bare bulb in the bathroom, he reviewed the final rule: Rule #6: Do not speak while the master works. He dislikes being interrupted. If you speak, the session will be ended and will be continued at the master’s discretion. He could handle that.
Drying his hands on a dingy, gray towel, he returned to the entryway and carefully sat down on the middle chair, his leg bouncing nervously.
At precisely 9:33, he heard a door open at the top of the L-shaped staircase that swooped up off the entry, and Master Horitomo appeared at the top of the stairs, beckoning for him with a curt wave of his hand. Majima jumped to his feet, scurried up the stairs, and bowed. He had to stop himself from speaking as he was waved into the room, which appeared to have been a bedroom at one point: modest white walls with sliding doors that, he assumed, opened to a closet.
“Remove your clothes and lie face down on the mat. We will begin on your back for this session.” Saying that, Horitomo-san stepped out the door. Majima deposited his clothes in a corner in a neat pile, lay face down on the mat on the floor, and threw the provided covering over his lower half. Almost as soon as he’d settled himself, the master returned, and the work began. Having his irezumi hand poked was a rite of passage, he knew, but he still found himself fighting to hold still as the area above his spine was covered in ink. He’d heard it was sensitive over joints and bones, and he'd definitely be feeling this tomorrow.
The work continued in silence, and Majima valiantly willed himself to stay still. Yakuza don’t flinch, he chided himself. However, he was grateful when, after what felt like several hours, the old man stopped and rose. He heard the door to the room slide shut, and he was left alone, naked on the floor. Majima took the brief respite to stretch his aching limbs and arch his back like a cat, but he quickly dropped back into place when he heard the sound of a door sliding, and he lay still, eyes closed, waiting for the jabs to begin again. He heard Horitomo-san kneel next to him. Heard the tool being lifted. Heard a woman’s voice softly say, “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ll be working on you while the master rests.”
Majima’s head jerked up, and he saw a woman sitting in the master’s place.
“Um…who’re…” He immediately bit his lip. He hadn’t meant to speak. Shit, shit, shit. What if he’d messed up now?
She laughed in response. “It’s alright. You can speak to me. I’m an apprentice.”
Majima sighed in relief. “Didn’t realize Master Horitomo had an apprentice.”
“Oh yes,” she replied with a smile. “I’ve been here a while. Now, if you’ll hold still, I’ll continue.”
He obediently turned his head so that he was facing straight, although he continued to try to sneak glances at the apprentice. She wore a grey kimono and had long, straight hair, which she had pulled back with a bright red tie. She was….kind of pretty.
“So, how do you like working with Master Horitomo?”
She said nothing for a time and then replied, “It’s given me the chance to meet many interesting people. But I must say, I’m truly excited to have the chance to work on you.”
He squirmed a bit. Talking to girls had never been his strong point, and he wasn’t sure if she was being friendly or if she was flirting with him.
“Lie still, please.”
“Sorry.”
She worked faster than the master did, with a speed and efficiency that was unnerving. He hoped she knew what she was doing. He didn’t like the idea of being the Yakuza with the embarrassingly sloppy irezumi. Although if she was Master Horitomo’s apprentice, she had to be good. Didn’t she?
“You..um…said you’ve been doing this for a while?”
“Oh yes.”
“You don’t look that old.” He wanted to slap himself the minute the words were out of his mouth. Great job, Goro. What girl doesn’t love talking about her age? You fucking moron.
“Oh, you might be surprised,” she said with a soft laugh. “I’ve left my mark on others before. But I’m truly excited to be working on your piece. Truly.”
His body broke out in a cold sweat, and a horrible feeling of lightheadedness overcame him. He thought he heard her say his name as the world swung dizzyingly on its axis, but he couldn’t be sure because suddenly, everything sounded so far away.
—-
The next thing he was aware of was his leg jerking, and the rest of his body followed suit. He was alone. His entire back felt raw, and he felt incredibly ill.
“What the fuck?” he muttered to himself as he tried to get his bearings.
On the floor next to him was a note in neat, sprawling penmanship.
“Many young men are overcome by the first session. It is nothing to be ashamed of. Your next appointment is precisely two weeks from now, at the same time. Please observe the same rules. -H”
—
“Ya look like shit, bro. Ya alright?”
“Huh?” Majima stumbled back into Saejima’s apartment, dazed.
“Musta done a number on ya; you were there almost six hours.”
Six hours? Had that much time passed? He hadn’t even looked at his watch.
“So, how’d it go?”
“Fine, I guess. Felt like the old man was working awfully slow. Glad he’s got an apprentice. She’s a hell of a lot faster.”
He looked up at Saejima as he finished removing his shoes to see the other man staring at him, his mouth open.
“Bro, what’d ya just say?”
“Said his apprentice was a hell of a lot faster.”
“Fuck! Goddammit, Goro.”
“What??” A sick feeling rose in his gut at the severity of Saejima's response.
“Ya couldn’t follow seven fucking steps?”
Majima thought for a moment, ticking through the list in his head. “The fuck do you mean? I did everything on the list.”
“Lemme see.”
Majima pulled the rumpled paper from his pocket, and Saejima seized it, hurriedly unfolding it.
“Yer last step’s been torn off.”
“What?”
Saejima fumbled through a nearby pile of magazines and produced his own paper, which Majima feverishly read.
Rules:
- Your appointment is scheduled to begin Tuesday at 9:33. You must arrive exactly seven minutes prior to that. You may enter through the front door precisely at your scheduled arrival time.
- Come alone.
- When you arrive, knock on the door three times.
- Sit only in the middle chair in the entryway.
- Be sure to use the bathroom before your session begins. Your session will most likely be lengthy. It is the second door on the left, down the hall.
- Do not speak while the master works. He dislikes being interrupted. If you speak, the session will be ended and will be continued at the master’s discretion.
- If a woman introduces herself as Horitomo’s apprentice, leave immediately. Horitomo does not have an apprentice, nor has he ever. Do not stop to collect your belongings. Do not look back.
He tore his shirt off, running past Saejima to the small bathroom.
“Hey! What the fuck….thought ya were gettin’ two snakes.”
Nausea overwhelmed him, and his entire body was soaked with cold sweat by the time he turned on the bathroom light and spun so that his back faced the mirror.
A fanged face with hollow eyes smiled back at him.