Page 7 of The Dragon 1
“Why do you need to talk to the owner, Nyomi?”
I looked up at Zo. “I have to reassure him that nothing I write will expose anyone. No names, no identifying details. The usual nondisclosure dance.”
“You never said anything about meeting the owner.” He lowered his voice. “Do you even know who owns these places? The Yakuza.”
“Yes,” I pulled my arm free. “But I’m not crazy and I damned sure am not here to blow up the Yakuza’s secrets.”
“But—”
“The world needs more stories that don’t treat sex workers like they’re disposable once the lights go out. And places like this. . .” I nodded toward the gilded hallway. “There’s more going on here than just sex. There’s culture. Power. Fantasy. And yeah—danger. I didn’t come to Tokyo to be safe. I came to be honest. And honesty? It always lives on the edge of discomfort.”
How could I truly help Zo understand that I was also here for the silence underneath all the sex—the ache people paid to escape. The truth buried between moans and money. I needed to know what it meant when pleasure became performance—when it stopped being pretend.
Zo looked at me with widened eyes but said nothing in response.
In truth, he didn't need to.
I'd known him long enough to read the worry etched across his face. His concern was genuine, but he also knew my determination was equally so.
We headed off.
When we got close, the door down the hall opened.
Jun peeked his head out, sporting a big white shirt with some sort of green and black food stain spotting the front.
Fast, Jun gestured to his office. “There you go! Come, Mr. Sato doesn’t like to wait on anyone. Hurry.”
“I’m so sorry,” I picked up my pace.
Clearly nervous, Zo trailed behind me. “Remember, Nyomi. No excessive smiling, hugs, or that kiss cheek thing you always do. Don’t shake the owner’s hand unless he offers it first. Do a half-bow from the waist while your hands are on your thighs with your fingers touching.”
“Got it.”
“And if all else fails, you’ll probably be okay.” He grabbed my hand. “You’re agaijinso he’ll think you don’t know anything anyway.”
“Good because I truly don’t know shit.”
When we made it to the office, I looked inside and froze in the doorway.
Oh my.
Zo had to nudge me forward.
My tape recorder remained heavy in my hand.
Six suited men outlined the walls with menacing expressions, their bodies still as statues—but there was nothing passive about them.
It was hard to explain why I considered them dangerous.
They weren’t tall by American standards.
No visible weapons.
No direct eye contact.
Yet. . .
Violence throbbed from them.
