Page 39 of The Dragon 1

A man in a cheap suit dropped his cigarette and didn’t bother to pick it up, bolting toward the alley with his head down.

Even the predators fled when the Dragon stepped outside.

We didn’t speak as we moved through Kabukicho. Neon signs buzzed like electric gods.

Above, a love hotel sign flickered the wordParadisein kanji.

Girls leaned out of windows with faces painted like porcelain dolls.

Host boys smoked on balconies, eyeing us with detached curiosity that quickly morphed into fear.

The deeper we moved, the quieter the street became. Even the music spilling from the clubs lost its edge when we passed.

Together, we walked like a single beast, and the city recoiled with every step.

We reached one of my restaurants,the Last Cut.

A sushi spot with a narrow entrance and no sign. Just a single red lantern swinging above the door, casting a blood-hued glow across the stones.

Reo opened the door for me.

I moved forward.

Conversation died the second I stepped inside. Scents hit me—rice vinegar and raw tuna. Wasabi that clung to my sinuses like smoke.

We continued forward.

Chopsticks froze mid-air.

Chewing stopped.

A couple on a date—young, too pretty, too naive to be here—pushed back their seats without realizing it.

One old man bowed so low his forehead nearly touched his food.

Waitresses in silk kimonos hurried around us, their slippers whispering against the polished floor.

Behind the counter, thewakate—a junior sushi chef still in his first year—nervously nodded at me and appeared like he was very close to pissing himself. His knife hovered mid-air over a slab of fresh mackerel, the cut trembling slightly. He wasn’t theitamae—the head sushi chef. That honor belonged to Yamada-san, the master of the house.

Meanwhile, beside the newwakatewas ashokunin-in-training—barely fifteen. And he stood frozen with a lacquered tray ofnigiriin one hand and his other clenched at his side.

Reo leaned in, voice low. “We may need to replace the wakate. He’s too nervous to work here.”

I watched the young chef’s throat bob as he swallowed, his eyes flicking toward us like he feared we might cut him instead of the fish.

“Give him time,” I murmured. “A little fear sharpens the blade.”

We pressed deeper into the restaurant and entered the kitchen.

Yamada-san spotted us.

“Kencho,” he greeted me softly.

Only five people in this world had ever used that name with me. Yamada was one. My father another. The rest were buried deep in the ground.

“Yamada-san,” I returned the nod.

He was a relic—white headband tied tight; face carved with age. His knives were lined behind him, serving as a shrine.