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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Iron Face stood in the dining room doorway, his cold eyes scanning each of us. No one dared touch their food while he remained.

After a moment, he drew a breath. “After lunch, I will teach a class for you.”

I waited for him to explain what the class would cover, but he gave nothing away, as usual. No details, no hints.

“This is not a challenge and will not count toward the six you are expected to complete,” he added before turning and leaving without another word.

It struck me then that I didn’t know anything about Iron Face’s background. Was he even a chef? Could we actually learn anything from him? Judging by the expressions on the others’ faces, I wasn’t the only one with doubts.

“Does this mean we’ll have an exam?” Kaiyo asked, stuffing his mouth with rice.

“Why isn’t Chef Sakamoto teaching the class?” Dori chimed in, rolling his eyes. “We haven’t learned a damn thing from that guy.”

“Whatever it is, I hope it’s something physical,” Taka sneered, his eyes cutting to me. “Some people here need a lesson on getting hit.”

I ignored him, as I always did.

“Hey, Akiko,” he added, leaning forward with a grin. “This is one class where you’re not the teacher’s pet.”

Had the others noticed the way Reina kept glancing and smiling at me?

On and on, Taka and Dori threw insults my way. Kenji sat beside me, his chopsticks moving mechanically from his bento to his mouth as if he couldn’t hear them. It was strange, as he’d always been the first to defend me. Why was he silent now, when I needed him most?

Taka kept it up until Jiro finally spoke. “Still mad about Akiko shoving you to the ground the other day?”

Kaiyo’s laugh was loud and sudden. “Akiko threw you on your ass? I need to hear this story.”

“Shut up, Kaiyo. That never happened,” Taka snapped, his face reddening.

“Yeah, if anything, she was the one about to get her ass handed to her,” Dori added, puffing up beside Taka. “If it weren’t for her boyfriend here.” He jerked his thumb at Jiro.

“I’m just calling it like it is,” Jiro said, smirking. “She knocked you back when you tried to block her path.”

Taka’s face darkened. “Funny, coming from the guy who wouldn’t stop poking fun at her and now suddenly feels the need to defend her.”

“Jealous?” Jiro quipped, raising an eyebrow.

For the first time, Kenji’s mechanical movements slowed. His chopstick hovered in midair, and his jaw tightened. Finally, some reaction.

But that’s all it was, a reaction. He said nothing and didn’t even look my way. Not until lunch ended did he pull me aside.

“What were Jiro and Taka talking about back there? Did something happen yesterday?”

Now he’s interested.

“Nothing that needs repeating. Forget about it,” I said, turning to walk away.

Kenji grabbed my arm and jerked me back. “Hey, I’m talking to you. Are you getting back together with Jiro?”

“What? How the hell did you get that from anything I said?” I yanked my arm free. “And don’t ever grab me like that again.”

“Just answer the question,” he demanded, his tone sharp.

“I don’t think I will. Not with that attitude.” I hated fighting with him. It was exhausting. But his need to control everything about me was wearing thin.

Diplomacy, Akiko. Remember the game. Keep your enemies close.

I forced a smile. “I’m sorry, Kenji. I didn’t mean to snap. Can we talk about this later? Please?”

Before he could respond, Iron Face appeared. His gaze chilled the room into silence. Without a word, he turned, and we all followed. He led us to a clearing near the left side of the Sakamoto residence, a part of the compound I hadn’t ventured into yet.

In the center of the clearing were six metal tables, each holding a fish about two feet long. The fish looked odd, and as we got closer, I realized why. They were made of metal.

Iron Face began with a flip chart, revealing a diagram of a bluefin tuna.

“Today’s class is Zap Sakusen! We will learn the key cuts of a tuna.”

Interesting, but why the strange name? Operation Zap?

“This is a practice fish because a real bluefin tuna would be wasted on amateurs. These replicas have internal sensors to measure your precision.”

He flipped the chart again, revealing another diagram with four cuts highlighted. “Akami,” he said, pointing to the bright-red flesh along the sides. “Chutoro.” His finger moved to the area between the belly and the sides. “Otoro.” He tapped the belly. “And kamatoro.” The collar.

The cuts were straightforward, but his tone made it sound like we were preparing for surgery, not sashimi.

“Take your positions behind a table.”

Kenji took the table to my right. Jiro took the one to my left. “This will be fun,” Jiro said, grinning at me.

Kenji glared. And just like that, the tension doubled.

I stared at the fish; its lifeless glass eye and the hyperrealistic paint job were an odd combination. Four outlined cuts marked its body, each holding a plastic piece of fish. Beside it lay oversize tweezers and a small rubber mat. What had seemed like a teaching moment was something else entirely. No cutting, just plucking pieces from the fish.

Iron Face moved to Taka’s table and flipped a switch. The table buzzed ominously, a crackling hum filling the air. “Touch it,” he ordered, his stare locked on Taka.

Without hesitation, Taka tapped a finger on the table and immediately screamed, yanking his hand back.

“The tuna is attached to a conductive surface,” Iron Face said. “If you touch the table, or if your tools make contact with the table or any part of the fish aside from the piece you’re extracting, you will be shocked. Severely.” He moved down the line, flipping switches at each station as a low buzz filled the room. “A steady hand is the mark of a sushi chef. One careless cut can destroy hundreds of thousands of yen worth of fish. Your task is to extract the four primary cuts cleanly. Place each one on the rubber mat.”

Jiro leaned toward me, muttering, “This reminds me of that operating game where you yank out a funny bone with tweezers.”

“Except now it’s a fake fatty tuna piece,” I replied.

“But you still get shocked,” he added.

“Don’t listen to him,” Kenji snapped. “He wants you to screw up.”

“Actually, I want you to screw up,” Jiro shot back, his grin widening.

“Enough!” Iron Face barked, silencing us. “Trigger a shock, and you start over. Three strikes, and you’re out. You have ninety seconds.” He set a timer on the podium. “Begin.”

The buzz of the timer signaled the start. Within seconds, shocks echoed around the room, followed by gasps and curses. I accidentally touched the table while picking up my tweezer, and it bit me with a jolt. The initial shock wasn’t too painful, but it rattled my nerves. I gritted my teeth. Focus, Akiko. Don’t rush. Just stay steady.

I zeroed in on the akami, the largest and easiest cut. Tweezers in hand, I leaned over carefully, ensuring no part of me touched the table. I lowered the tool into the gap, gripped the piece, and pulled. I dropped it onto my mat. One down, three to go.

Glancing around, I saw the others had also succeeded with the akami. I decided to tackle the otoro next, along the belly. A yell broke my concentration as I bent down to align my view. My tweezers grazed the edge of the gap, and the resulting shock shot through me like fire. I yelped, the tool flying from my hand.

Kaiyo was cradling his hand, tears streaming. “The second shock’s worse!” he cried.

Iron Face’s voice cut through the air. “Did I forget to mention? Each mistake intensifies the shock. Hurry, time is running out. The loser will be eliminated.”

My stomach dropped. Frantic, I retrieved my tweezers and forced my breathing to steady. I couldn’t afford another mistake. I refocused on the otoro, carefully gripping and pulling the piece free. Relief washed over me as I placed it on the mat.

“Good job,” Jiro whispered, his tone unusually sincere.

Kenji let out a triumphant “Yes!” as he placed his second piece down. The tension in the room thickened as we moved to the more difficult cuts.

I bent over the chutoro, my hands trembling. “Forty-five seconds!” Iron Face called out. “Who’s going home today?”

Before I could start, a piercing scream froze me in place. Kaiyo stood rigid, his hand pressed against his table. Sparks danced up his arm, his body convulsing violently. Foam bubbled from his lips as his body smoked. Blood streaked from his eyes, dripping from his chin.

For a moment, no one moved. The air reeked of burned fabric. Or was it flesh? He’s being electrocuted.

Kaiyo crumpled to the ground, motionless. No one said a word; the only sound was the hum of the tables. And then, out of nowhere, as if on cue, those same two mystery men in black uniforms appeared, dragging his limp body away like garbage.

The timer buzzed, snapping us out of our trance. Iron Face surveyed us with disdain. “Pathetic,” he sneered. “Chef Sakamoto says you’re the worst group ever, and I don’t doubt him. Today was just practice. Practice for what’s to come. Imagine what the final challenges will demand.” His smile was colder than the steel tables.

What had happened to Kaiyo wasn’t a lesson. It was a harsh reminder that hit me like a third shock. There was only one way out of this place. Survive.