Page 9 of Kotori

I drop a piece of fish, position my rice bowl incorrectly, and repeatedly fail to gracefully handle food with chopsticks despite years of eating takeout.

Each mistake earns a correction—sometimes from Mizuki, sometimes from a server who materializes to demonstrate proper technique, once from Kaito himself who reaches across to reposition my fingers on the chopsticks, his touch lingering a moment too long.

By the time the meal ends, I'm exhausted from the concentration required to simply eat without humiliating myself further.

"Williams-sensei has much to learn about Japanese customs," Mizuki observes as servers clear the dishes.

"Indeed." Kaito's gaze remains on me, unreadable but intense. "Perhaps additional lessons would be beneficial."

"I would appreciate any guidance," I say carefully, though the prospect of more rules to memorize makes my head throb.

"Excellent. We will begin tonight." He rises in one fluid motion, the movement drawing my eye to the powerful lines of his body. "Eight o'clock. My study."

Not a request. A command.

"Yes, Matsumoto-sama," I respond automatically, the honorific now coming more naturally after this morning's repeated corrections.

By the time eight o'clock approaches, I'm a raw nerve of embarrassment and cultural fatigue. My confidence, usually unshakable in professional settings, lies in shreds around me.

Which is precisely the point, I realize as I make my way to Kaito's study. Every correction, every protocol, every rule serves the same purpose—to disorient me, to strip away my certainties, to emphasize how foreign I am here.

To make me dependent on guidance. His guidance.

I pause outside his study door, the realization settling cold in my stomach.

The constant corrections aren't just cultural differences—they're a systematic dismantling of my independence.

Each rule I don't know creates another opportunity to seek approval, another chance to be grateful for instruction, another moment of relief when I finally get something right.

Another chain, invisible but no less binding.

I raise my hand to knock, then hesitate. Part of me wants to rebel, to refuse this game entirely. To demand normal working conditions or leave.

But leave for where? With what money? On what transportation?

To which destination? I'm hours from Kyoto, with no phone, no car, no independent means of support beyond what Kaito provides.

The money he gave me sits in my room, but it might as well be monopoly cash for all the good it does me here, isolated on this mountain.

And beneath the practical concerns lies something more disturbing—the memory of how it felt when I correctly said "Matsumoto-sama" this morning, when he adjusted my chopsticks at lunch, when his eyes held mine across the table.

I knock on the door, three precise taps.

"Enter," his voice calls from within.

I slide the door open and step inside, kneeling in the spot where I knelt this morning. The room is dimmer now, lights that cast everything in warm, golden light. Kaito sits behind his desk, reading something on a laptop that he closes when I enter.

"Punctuality. Good." He studies me in silence for a long moment. "You had a difficult day."

Not a question. A statement of fact.

"Cultural differences take time to navigate," I say diplomatically.

"And yet you persist in thinking of them as differences rather than improvements." He rises, moving to the low table where I kneel. Instead of sitting across from me, he settles beside me, close enough that I can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body.

"Your way isn't inherently better," I respond, then immediately regret the challenge in my voice.

But Kaito merely smiles, the expression transforming his severe features into something devastatingly handsome.

"No? Tell me, which approach creates more beauty?

More order? More respect?" He gestures to the perfect arrangement of the room around us.

"Which approach has survived thousands of years? "

I have no good answer that doesn't sound like arrogance.

"The rules exist for reasons beyond tradition," he continues, voice dropping lower. "They create harmony. Predictability. Safety." He emphasizes the last word, dark eyes holding mine. "In chaos, threats hide easily. In order, nothing moves without permission."

The way he says "permission" sends a shiver down my spine.

"Stand," he commands without preamble.

I rise to my feet, surprised by the sudden directive.

He circles me slowly, eyes assessing every inch of my posture with predatory focus. "Your bearing betrays you," he says, stopping behind me where I can't see his face. "Every movement announces you as foreign, vulnerable, unprepared."

His hand settles at the small of my back, the touch light but commanding. "Spine straight." His other hand moves to my shoulder, adjusting my posture with firm pressure. "Chin level." His fingers brush my jaw, tilting my head to the correct position.

Each touch is ostensibly professional, instructional, yet the heat of his palm against my back burns through my blouse. I remain perfectly still, afraid to breathe, hyperaware of his proximity and the subtle scent of his cologne.

"When you move through this house," he continues, voice near my ear, "you represent this family. Your carriage should reflect that honor."

His hand slides from my back to my waist, positioning me as one might adjust a mannequin.

The casual ownership in the gesture makes my pulse quicken.

I should object, should maintain professional boundaries, but instead I allow him to arrange me like a doll, responding to each subtle pressure with immediate compliance.

"Better," he murmurs, stepping around to examine his work. "Now walk to that screen and back. With purpose."

But before he can begin the lesson, the study door slides open. Takeshi stands in the doorway, face impassive but posture urgent.

"Forgive the interruption, Matsumoto-sama." He bows deeply. "There is a situation requiring your immediate attention."

Kaito's expression doesn't change. "Very well." He turns to me. "We will continue tomorrow night. You are dismissed."

The abrupt end to our meeting leaves me off-balance. I rise, bow as I've been instructed, and exit the study with the uncomfortable feeling that I've been granted a temporary reprieve rather than an actual escape.

In the hallway, I hear rapid Japanese behind the closed door—Takeshi's voice urgent, Kaito's responses clipped and cold. Though I can't understand the words, the tone needs no translation. Something serious has happened.

I make my way back toward my room, but the sound of Kaito's voice stops me.

Gone is the controlled, measured tone he's used with me.

In its place is something I've never heard before—deep, guttural Japanese that vibrates with fury.

The words are incomprehensible, but the rage needs no translation.

Each syllable cuts through the air like a blade, his voice dropping to a register so low it shakes the floor beneath my feet.

"Ore no nawabari ni..." The rest dissolves in a torrent of Japanese, but the deadly calm beneath the storm terrifies more than any shouting.

I flatten against the wall, heart racing. Takeshi responds, voice deferential but urgent. Kaito's commands silence him instantly.

Something crashes against a wall—glass shattering, perhaps a vase or decanter. Then silence, more deadly than the rage that preceded it.

"Korose!" The single word slices through the quiet with lethal precision.

I don't know what it means, but the weight of it, the finality, sends ice through my veins. It wasn't spoken in anger, but with the calm certainty of someone delivering a sentence that cannot be appealed.

Footsteps approach the door. I panic, turning to flee before I'm discovered eavesdropping. In my haste, I bump against a decorative table. The vase on top wobbles, and I catch it before it falls, heart pounding.

The footsteps pause.

I don't wait to see if they investigate. Moving as quietly as possible, I hurry down the corridor and take a different route back to my room, mind racing with implications.

This isn't just a wealthy family with traditional values. This is something far more dangerous. The tattoos glimpsed beneath Kaito's collar, the deference of the men in the garden, the security measures throughout the compound—it all suddenly makes terrible sense.

I've accepted employment from a yakuza family. I'm living in a crime lord's compound. I've surrendered my phone, my passport, my connections to the outside world to a man who commands people with a single word—a man whose rage feels like a physical force even through walls and doors.

And I have no way out.

Back in my room, I sink onto the bed, trying to control my breathing. Part of me wants to pack my things and run—but to where? With what money? The nearest town is miles away across mountain roads I don't know. I have no phone, no transportation, no one to call for help even if I could reach them.

I'm trapped not by locks and chains, but by isolation and dependence.

A soft knock interrupts my spiraling thoughts. I open the door to find Aya standing there in pajamas decorated with cartoon rabbits, a book clutched to her chest.

"Williams-sensei," she says hesitantly, "will you read me a story? Kohana-nee is doing homework, and Mizuki-nee said she's too busy."

The contrast between my terrifying realization and this innocent request is so stark that I can only stare at her. This little girl with hopeful eyes has no idea what her father does, what this family is. She just wants a bedtime story.

"Of course," I say, pushing my fear aside. "I'd love to."

I follow her to her bedroom—a paradise of toys, books, and soft colors that could belong in any wealthy home. Nothing here hints at the darker reality I've glimpsed.

As I read to her about princesses and dragons, her small body curled against my side, the day's disorientation takes on new dimensions. These girls didn't choose their father's world any more than I did. They're as much products of this environment as victims of it.

When Aya finally drifts to sleep, I carefully extract myself and turn to find Kaito standing in the doorway.

How long he's been there, I don't know. His expression as he watches his sleeping daughter reveals tenderness I wouldn't have thought possible—the crime lord momentarily just a father who loves his child.

As he shifts slightly, the lantern light catches something on his white shirt cuff—a small dark stain that looks suspiciously like blood. He notices my gaze and casually adjusts his sleeve, covering the evidence without acknowledgment.

My heart should race with fear. I should be horrified, disgusted, desperate to escape this man whose hands might have just…

Instead, heat curls through my body. The danger he represents, the raw power, the absolute certainty that he can protect what's his at any cost. It speaks to something primitive in me that I never knew existed. The realization terrifies and exhilarates.

His eyes meet mine. He knows that I've glimpsed the predator beneath the businessman and haven't run screaming.

"She likes you," he says quietly as we step into the hallway, closing Aya's door behind us. "They all do, in their way. Even Mizuki, though she'd never admit it."

"They're wonderful girls," I respond truthfully. "You must be very proud of them."

"They are my greatest achievement. And my greatest vulnerability." His gaze intensifies. "A man in my position cannot afford many weaknesses."

The statement carries unmistakable warning. Not a threat, exactly, but a reminder of power and what happens to those who threaten what he values.

"I would never do anything to harm them," I say, meaning it completely.

"I know." His certainty is absolute. "You'll protect them as fiercely as I do. It's in your nature—the teacher who defends her students, the woman who shelters children. It's why you were chosen."

Chosen. Not hired—chosen. The distinction sends a chill down my spine.

"Goodnight, Paige-san." He turns to leave, then pauses. "Lock your door tonight." His voice drops, taking on that edge I heard earlier, the voice of command, not request. "Wakatta?" Understand?

The Japanese word hangs in the air, clearly expecting acknowledgment.

"Hai, Matsumoto-sama," I respond automatically, surprising myself with the immediate compliance.

He turns and walks away, his footsteps silent on the polished floor.

Back in my room, I turn the lock with shaking fingers.

I'm caught between two dangers—the man who owns this compound and whatever threats lurk beyond its walls.

And the most disturbing part? Despite everything I've learned today, despite every warning sign, despite the blood I glimpsed on his cuff, part of me feels safer with the devil I know than whatever waits outside.

I'm living in a yakuza compound, teaching a crime lord's daughters, and beginning to understand that the cultural immersion I'm experiencing isn't just about Japanese customs—it's about being absorbed into a world where danger and beauty twine together until you can no longer separate one from the other.

Just like I'm starting to find it hard to separate my fear of Kaito Matsumoto from my growing fascination with him.