Page 5

CHAPTER FOUR

Over breakfast, Miki offered to drive me to the restaurant, but I told her it wasn’t necessary. Plus, she had work, though she dismissed that. Honestly, she was just looking for an excuse to be late to her job. Again.

“You have to be on time,” I said, using my chopsticks to mix my rice with my natto. “Didn’t your boss already talk to you about your tardiness?”

“So what?” she replied, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Soon, I’ll be the hostess with the mostest at your fabulous restaurant, and my boss will beg me for a reservation.”

I laughed. “Oh yeah? And what will you say? No? Is turning away customers a great business decision?”

“First of all,” she said, wagging her finger, “your restaurant will be booked a year in advance, minimum. So, ‘Sorry, not sorry’ wouldn’t even be a lie. Maybe if he got down on his knees and begged, I’d consider squeezing him in, but only after six months. Or longer.”

“You’re a vengeful one. Remind me to never get on your bad side.”

“I look out for my friends, that’s all.”

“And I appreciate your undying loyalty,” I said, “but until I finish this apprenticeship, find the money to open a restaurant, and build it up enough to hire you, you need to be on time for work so you can pay your bills.”

“Ugh,” she groaned, slumping in her chair. “You make it sound like it’s years away.”

“It might be.”

“Well, Miss Super Sushi Chef,” she said, standing, “you’d better call a taxi. If anyone can’t be late today, it’s you.”

Despite my protests, Miki insisted on waiting with me until the taxi arrived. “It’s my duty to see you off,” she said. She gave me a tight hug before I got in the car. “Good luck, Akiko. You’re going to crush it. I can’t wait to celebrate when this is all over.”

As the taxi drove through Kyoto, I couldn’t help but imagine what lay ahead. I’d never visited the House of Sakamoto before, but I assumed it would be in the trendiest, most fashionable part of the city. A crown jewel surrounded by celebrity-filled bars, designer boutiques, and beautiful people strolling along sunlit sidewalks.

But that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

The driver took me to the edge of a heavily industrialized part of town, far from Kyoto’s city center. At first, I thought he must have the wrong address. I checked my phone’s map three times just to be sure.

Outside the window, drab warehouses and nondescript buildings lined the streets, their gray walls blending into one another. It felt like a place where things disappeared.

Why would Chef Sakamoto open a restaurant here?

The taxi stopped in front of a building that didn’t belong. The facade was designed to look like a traditional Japanese village home, complete with dark wooden beams and sliding doors. Above the double-door entrance, gold letters spelled out “House of Sakamoto.” My first thought? Strange, like a set piece from a period movie discarded on the side of the road. But what did I know? Chef Sakamoto owned a Michelin-rated restaurant. I didn’t.

I double-checked the address on my phone one last time, even though the signage in front of me was impossible to miss. Then I stepped out of the taxi, the soles of my shoes crunching on the gravel road.

The street was eerily quiet. No cars. No pedestrians. No one waiting to greet me. A strange unease settled over me as I clutched my acceptance letter. Did I get the time wrong?

I unfolded the letter, the one thing I’d been told to bring, and rechecked the details. Date, time, address. Everything matched. I was even five minutes early.

Well, might as well get on with it.

I walked to the entrance of the restaurant and peered through the window. The lights were off, and not a soul was in sight.

Straightening my shoulders, I lifted my chin and knocked firmly on the door. The sound barely echoed, and I hesitated. What if no one was close enough to hear? My knuckles stung from the initial knock, but I raised my hand again. Before I could torture them, the door swung open.

Standing in the doorway was a man I didn’t recognize. He wasn’t Chef Sakamoto: That much I knew. His salt-and-pepper hair was cropped close, and two heavy brows sat low over scrutinizing eyes. The harsh lines of his face deepened as he frowned, his scarred chin catching the light. He was dressed in all black: loose, baggy pants suited for a kitchen and a buttoned-up long-sleeve shirt that seemed out of place.

“Hi,” I began, offering a polite bow. “My name is Akiko Ono. I’m here for the apprenticeship.”

He didn’t respond, only stared down at me, unblinking.

“I was told to arrive at nine a.m. sharp.” I fumbled with the welcome letter and held it out. He snatched it from my hand without a word.

“I am Aoto Matsumoto,” he said at last, his voice cold and mechanical. “From here on, you will address me as Kanshisha-san.”

The title caught me off guard. Kanshisha. Overseer. Was he the manager of the apprenticeship?

“Any questions, problems, or needs you have, you will bring to me. Is that clear?” His eyes didn’t flicker with curiosity or warmth. They were flat, unreadable.

“Yes,” I said, my voice steady despite the unease curling in my stomach. “Where are the other apprentices?”

He ignored my question and turned, motioning for me to follow.

We moved quickly through the empty restaurant. The modern decor was stark, almost clinical, with evenly spaced tables and plain white walls devoid of art. It felt as unwelcoming as Kanshisha-san himself.

He pushed through a pair of swinging doors, leading me into the kitchen. The lights were off, but the gleaming stainless steel countertops and the spotless floors stood out even in the dimness. The air smelled faintly of cleaning solution, sharp and sterile. Along one wall were stoves and grills, while shelves of cookware lined another. A long prep table dominated the center of the room, its surface reflecting the faint light.

Goose bumps prickled along my arms. This was where I would train.

We didn’t linger. Kanshisha-san led me out the back door into a narrow space between the restaurant and a towering concrete wall. I craned my neck, my gaze following the wall to the gray sky. Barbed wire coiled along the top, matching Miki’s declaration that it looked like a prison.

Straight ahead were massive steel doors, weathered and foreboding, with intricate dragon etchings carved into their surface. They looked like they weighed a ton each.

Of course Kanshisha-san was taking me to meet the master himself. My heart quickened.

We crossed the path, the gravel crunching underfoot, until we reached the doors. Kanshisha-san pulled out a key and unlocked it. He turned to me, his eyes colder than ever.

I swallowed hard. His expression practically screamed disapproval. If I had to guess, he wasn’t thrilled about having a woman apprentice. I’d expected pushback. I was bucking centuries of tradition. But this man seemed like the embodiment of tradition itself.

He grunted as he heaved one of the steel doors open. He then motioned for me to enter.

I hesitated for a fraction of a second, then stepped through. The air felt colder and heavier. Behind us, the door slammed shut with a resounding clank.

Six weeks. That was how long I’d agreed to. Six weeks inside these walls, cut off from the world. I barely noticed my hands trembling as I clasped them together. My fate was sealed.

Before me sprawled the compound, like something out of a history textbook. It resembled a traditional palace from a time when Japan’s emperors ruled, complete with an arched wooden bridge spanning a narrow moat along the perimeter.

A moat. This place actually has a freaking moat.

Medium and small buildings dotted the landscape, connected by pebbled and stone walkways carved through manicured grass. Ishidoros, ornamental stone lanterns, rose from the earth lining the paths. Cherry trees stood scattered throughout, their branches heavy with pink blooms.

In the distance, I spotted a Zen garden and three-tiered red-and-black pagoda rising behind it. And beyond that, the Sakamoto residence loomed, its grandeur evoking royalty.

“This is amazing.” The words escaped me without thought. Kanshisha-san didn’t pause to acknowledge my awe. He brushed past me and retook the lead.

I followed, assuming we were heading toward the mansion. But instead, he veered left, passing a burbling fountain of stacked stones, and headed toward a long, rectangular building of dark-stained wood. It looked old, as though it had been transported straight from the fifteenth century. I half expected samurai on horseback to appear at any second, patrolling the grounds.

Kanshisha-san unlocked the door and stepped inside. I hesitated as the grandeur outside gave way to an eerie stillness. The hallway was dimly lit, with no windows—only small lamps jutting from the walls, their yellow glow barely piercing the shadows. The air smelled dry and stale, like a cupboard that hadn’t been opened in decades. We passed a series of narrow doorways, each closed, until we reached the very last room. Its door stood open.

“This is your room,” Kanshisha-san said, his tone flat. “You are to wait here until told otherwise. Keep the door closed.” His cold and dismissive gaze skimmed over me, settling on my phone in my hand. He snatched it from me. “Change out of those clothes.”

I stepped inside, and before I could speak, the door shut firmly behind me, followed by the unmistakable click of a lock. I froze, listening to his footsteps fade down the hall. Slowly, I turned and tested the doorknob. It turned, but the door wouldn’t budge. A dead bolt was in place.

Did he just lock me in?

My stomach twisted, and for the first time, I wondered if I’d made a mistake.

The room was stark, with a tiny window near the ceiling. A single mattress lay on a narrow wooden frame, topped with a thin blanket and pillow. Two white towels were folded neatly on top. A small table with a chair stood against the wall, holding the most basic toiletries: a comb, a toothbrush with a tube of toothpaste, deodorant, shampoo, and a bar of green soap that smelled faintly medicinal. Above it hung a mirror, its surface slightly warped at the edges. I switched on the lamp beside it, bathing the room in weak yellow light.

A narrow standing closet occupied the corner. Inside hung two identical chef uniforms: black tops resembling kimonos, black pants, and red obi belts. The fabric looked stiff, utilitarian.

As I changed into one of the uniforms, unease gnawed at me. This apprenticeship felt off so far. The cold welcome, the sparse room… It all felt wrong. Was this common in other programs? Were the other apprentices here being treated the same way? Or was this special treatment for me, the lone woman in a man’s world?

I sat on the bed, the mattress creaking under my weight, and caught my reflection in the mirror. My own face stared back at me, pale and unsure.

Stop it, Akiko. The last thing you need is to second-guess yourself. Stay positive. This is the start of something new. Something great.

But the silence chipped away at me. Where were the other apprentices? Were they late? Would they be dismissed? Or were they here already, keeping quiet behind their closed doors?

I leaned toward the wall shared with the room next door and pressed my ear to the cold surface. Nothing. No movement. No sound. Just silence.

Minutes dragged by. Then I heard the faint creak of the front door opening, followed by heavy footsteps and Kanshisha-san’s low, gruff voice. My heart leaped. Someone else had arrived.

The footsteps stopped near my room, followed by the squeak of another door opening. A pause. Then, the soft click of it closing again. No lock clicked into place.

Why was my door locked and not theirs?

Miki had been joking when she called this place a prison. But sitting here, staring at the locked door, it didn’t feel like a joke anymore.