Today was the first day it was clear that autumn had ended and winter became an unavoidable reality. It hit Tora hard every year. Watching the breath billow out before him in white plumes as he rushed toward his nightly pit stop before work, he felt as if he were exhaling his very soul into the smoggy Tokyo air. Truth be told, Tora would have rather rushed straight to the warmth of the club he worked at, but it was a compulsion by now to precede each work night with prayer.
Tonight was especially important; the crisp, silent atmosphere hovering over Tokyo perfectly mimicked the foreboding weather on the worst day of his life, and any reminders of it filled him with a guilty need to cleanse his spirit. With that in mind, it felt like skipping prayers today would have dire consequences. But still, why did it have to be so damned cold? Inari had better damned well be happy I’m coming out to pray despite the fact that my nose is about to fall off, he thought with false bitterness as he turned off of the main street just a few blocks from Kabuki-cho in Shinjuku.
The haggard housewives and salarymen on their way home from shopping or work hardly even glanced at Tora - one of the benefits of being a night worker was that it afforded one a certain social invisibility. Most would rather not admit such activities went on around the corner from their neighborhood, and so they pretended not to see.
A few more turns through a series of side streets led Tora at last to one of his favorite neighborhood shrines. Glancing around at the moss-covered, weather-beaten torii and the worn path leading to the heart of the shrine, he heaved a sigh. It seemed fewer and fewer people cared about the temples and shrines these days, and it always saddened him to see them in varying stages of decline. If only I had the time to go around fixing them up, he thought for perhaps the thousandth time. Numb fingers gently traced over the foxes’ heads and down their smooth stone backs. A true shame; Tora sometimes felt he was the only person left in Japan who worshipped something other than the almighty yen.
Clap! Clap! He bowed deeply from the waist, chestnut brown hair plunging down over his face with a few strands inevitably finding their way to the corners of his mouth.
“Please protect me from alcohol poisoning again tonight,” he mumbled. Clap!
Standing straight once more, Tora glanced down at his watch. “Dammit! It’s 10 ‘til 6 already?!” he blurted out, hardly aware of giving voice to the words as he broke into a run for Kabuki-cho. Rushing back toward the main street, it was Tora’s turn to avoid the gazes of anyone he passed. It was better that way; he didn’t belong in any sort of normal, friendly neighborhood setting. He had no right to look them in the face, and should anyone have looked closely enough to notice his carefully masked foreign features, they’d see just how out of place he was.
Halfway to Yasukuni Street Tora slowed to a stroll, frosty exhalations puffing out rapidly with each step. Two teenage girls on their way home from cram school giggled nervously as he passed, clearly liking what they saw.
“What a hunk!” whispered the one on the left.
Tora was used to this kind of attention from women; after all, he’d fine-tuned every feature of his appearance to be as attractive as possible to as wide a range of women as he could manage, and he made damned good money from it. But it wasn’t all looks, of course; attitude was the other half of the game, and at this Tora was quite the prodigy. He worked at a host club called Unmod Cafe, which was in the business of providing alcohol, flirtation, and romance to female customers at exorbitant prices. Each club had its own gimmicks and target audiences, and Unmod was no exception; the latest trend for hosts lately was getting bionic alterations to make the hosts stronger, taller, more beautiful, and so on. But in the age of such rampant body mods, Unmod’s owner Takashi chose the bold theme of hiring only hosts with zero modifications. Tora had been the top host at the club - aside from Takashi, of course - for several months in a row.
The key to this situation was in the timing; if he responded immediately, he’d either scare them off or appear conceited. Instead, Tora waited until he was about 10 meters away before turning slowly and dramatically tossing his long hair over his shoulder. Once he caught up to the girls, he flashed the smile that’s stolen a thousand hearts - the trick was in forcing the smile into his eyes so it looked genuine, which had taken hours of practice in the mirror.
“Good evening, ladies. I couldn’t help but notice such radiant smiles being directed at me, but I must say you don’t look quite old enough to be my patrons yet,” he flirted, and held out a business card to each of them. “I do hope you’ll come to call on me at Unmod Cafe once you’re old enough, though; it would be an absolute...pleasure to serve you.” Tora sauntered away before they could respond, taking pride in their delighted squeals tearing through the neighborhood.
Reaching the area of Kabuki-cho near the club, Tora heaved a sigh of relief when he realized not even the rookie hosts were out practicing their pickup artistry yet. One might think there were plenty of street corners and enough potential customers that the hosts wouldn’t have to fight, but it could get pretty ugly. Although as a senior host Tora no longer had to grab new customers off the streets, his all-star status didn’t make him any friends outside of the club. He was currently in the top ten rankings for all the clubs in Tokyo and any one of his rivals would have jumped at the chance to derail his career with a nice injury if they caught him strolling through the red light district with his guard down.
Unmod Cafe occupied the top two floors of a building that rocked a minimalist style - to promote a sense of privacy, it seemed - which housed a tiny indie concert venue in the basement. Rumor had it Takashi, the owner of both the club and the building, was big into the rock scene and ran both businesses. Tora took the staircase up to the lower floor of the club, most of which was for staff only.
Takashi pounced on Tora when he walked through the doors to the break room as if he’d been waiting for him all day.
“My man, didn’t you get my message?” Tora’s boss said with a clap on his thin shoulder.
“Uh… what’re you talking about?” Tora replied as deadpan as he could. It was best not to admit anything to Takashi until one knew what they were getting into.
“You’re training tonight!” Takashi shot back, motioning wildly to a nervous looking man in a cheap suit. “Name’s unimportant - who knows if he’ll last? You can just call him Babyface til he passes muster. Right Babyface?” Takashi chuckled cruelly as the new recruit answered with a crisp “Yes Sir!”
“By the way,” Takashi continued, much quieter, “you got your order sheets for me? You mentioned needing another delivery.”
Tora deftly slipped the usual data chip out from his pocket and into his boss’ hand with a nod, and then turned to the fresh-faced host wannabe who was to be his lackey for the night.
The stench of damp fear emanating from the man - no, just a boy - in front of Tora wafted through the space between their bodies. The veteran host had trained countless rookies since becoming the top employee at the Cafe, and they always began the night afraid.
“When I was little, my parents used to tell me that I could become anything I wanted when I grew up,” Tora said, trying to lighten the mood. “I don’t think they ever imagined I’d be an expensive callboy entertaining wealthy women. Had I graduated high school I’m sure I could have gone on to forge a more respectable career, but instead I spend each night surrounded by all types of women cloying for my attention. It’s pretty fucking wild at first, but you’ll get used to it.
“Most hosts don’t make it more than a couple of months. For some it’s because their conscience gets in the way; others drop away like flies because of too much alcohol, drugs, or exhaustion. Don’t think for a second this is easy work, boy. But if you’ve got the stomach for it, the rewards are great. Now, any questions before we start going over the basics?” Babyface shook his head.
As Tora gave him a crash course on typical host responsibilities like techniques for serving drinks with style, conversing with customers, and switching between tables naturally, the nervous little man drank in his every word as if they were an elixir to cure all his worries. Other hosts began shuffling in over the course of the orientation, half-awake and half-ready for work. Tora introduced the newcomer to each of them as they began their beauty rituals.
The first host they stopped by was the closest person Tora had to a real friend; although they didn’t spend time together outside of work, they had each other’s backs at the club. The man’s hair was spiked in a gravity-defying ‘do that made him look about half a foot taller than his already tall gait, and he was in the process of applying dramatic makeup. His outfit was top-of-the-line and accentuated with one accessory after another, stopping just short of being gaudy.
“You see, most of us fall into a few general host categories. For example, you’ve got Aki here who is a party boy. He can handle the wildest of our guests and, my man,” Tora clapped him on the shoulder lightly, “you’re like a fucking phoenix, I don’t know how you do it! Babyface, this man can chug down his booze like a champ, puke it all up, and then get right back in the game and drink some more!”
“Yeah, but my liver’ll probably be completely shot in five years tops. At least I’ll make a shitload of cash in the meantime!” Aki shot back. His reflection in the mirror revealed a wry smile.
“Spoken like a true host!”
Tora and his pupil moved around to another employee with much softer features than Aki’s who was also much less flashy in both makeup and wardrobe. His eyes had a warm glimmer to them even now with no clients to impress. “Then you’ve got the peace keepers and all-around nice guys, like Hajime here,” Tora continued. “He’s got his own loyal group of clients who just want to be cooed over and coddled, but he and his crew are also our backup. So when one of us fucks up, or we get swamped with too many clients at a time and they start getting grumpy, we send Hajime in to smooth things over. I don’t know how he does it, either. It doesn’t matter what the girls say to him, he stays cool.”
Tora passed by several other newer hosts that he didn’t know as well, landing at last by Ryohei’s station. A Half like Tora, Ryohei was busy switching his look from one that tried to play up his Japanese features for easier transit over to one that accentuated his “exotic” features for the customers. When he saw Tora and the trainee standing behind him he flashed them his goofiest face before turning around, arms crossed.
“And what, pray tell, do you plan to tell our fresh-faced newbie about me, my little kitten?” Ryohei teased.
“And here, my baby-faced ward, we have a Funny Host in his transitioning stage,” Tora explained to his shadow, pretending not to hear his coworker. “He may not look like much now, but don’t be fooled; place him in his natural habitat - in the middle of a crowd, of course - and he comes to life. Ryohei and his crew are often the ones we send down for nampa - you know, picking up customers. He’s the best among us at making people laugh. Definitely come to him for pointers later. That is, if you don’t run away screaming by the end of the night.”
“Okay, fair enough, Kitten, fair enough. I am pretty funny. Modest, too!”
“Finally, you’ve got the general heartthrob type hosts - they make up most of our numbers because really, at the end of the day, most of our customers are paying to flirt with outrageously handsome men who take good care of them. Now, you’ll be assigned a prep station after a couple weeks of probation, but for now you’ll share mine. Any questions?”
“U-um,” began the trainee.
“....Yes?” prodded Tora, trying not to sound impatient.
“Which category of host are you?”
At the exact moment that Tora began to say “heartthrob” Ryohei paused again from his primping to shout “tease!” The trainee looked genuinely confused.
“Oh that’s right, you don’t know yet,” Ryohei continued. “See, Tora has a nickname around here… Tora the Untouchable. Most of us here, you know, get a little extra involved with our rockstar customers, if you know what I mean.” Ryohei leaned in to whisper in the new guy’s ear. “The amount of action you get through this job is insane if you play your cards right.” Straightening up, he went on. “Except our main man Tora, here. Somehow he’s our number one host nearly every month, even without sleeping around. Word has it the largest sum he’s turned down for some extra romance was five million yen. But Mr. Virtuous here turned it down gently. He’s either gay, a saint, or really good at keeping his affairs hush-hush. You ask me, depending on the day my money switches between the first and the last one.”
“Thank you, Ryohei. Really.” Tora’s words dripped with venomous sarcasm.
The tour of the break room complete, Tora led the way upstairs to the club proper. The staff stairs flowed up and out into a much smaller work room outfitted with a toilet and various emergency supplies for freshening up. It also had a door to the side for Takashi’s office and the cash box. The guest area of Unmod Cafe was outfitted with a sleek, minimalist design. Toward the back, closest to the staff staircase, there was a hallway with a series of doorless rooms outfitted with karaoke machines and wide, plush couches that could double as beds under the right circumstances. These rooms were rented out at a rate of 30,000 yen per half hour for the big spenders who wanted some alone time with their beloved host. This hallway opened into the club proper, which still had different levels to accommodate all types of customers.
The back of the open area was comprised of a series of circular booths enclosed most of the way by white, shiny walls. The stage where performances and champagne calls took place rested in the center of the club, and in front of that, closest to the entrance, was an open floor plan with an array of different sized tables and booths. The house lights were up now, but once the doors opened for the night they would be lowered to a so-called romantic setting, meaning everyone would have to sit all snuggled up to see each other.
“All right my man, it’s time to get in place. We’re live in 10! Now remember, let me lead the conversations and don’t let anyone’s glass stay empty.” Tora had to resist a chuckle; from the look on the guy’s face one would think he were being led to the executioner’s block.
Within a half hour, the club was nearly packed with bodies huddled together for respite from the chilly November air. The smell of sweat, perfume, and champagne wove between them all, the heady aroma enhancing the women’s lust and setting the men’s heads spinning. Tora lounged casually with one of his most loyal and least favorite customers, whom he secretly named Ms. Mole for the rather sizeable specimen on the top of her flat nose. She’d spent the money for 30 minutes in one of the private rooms as soon as she discovered Tora was training. He had a sneaking suspicion it was a cruel joke to her, to leave Babyface on his own with Tora’s other tables on his first day. Resentment aside, Tora needed to be just seductive enough to ensure she kept coming back without having to suffer through any serious flirtation. To the best of his knowledge he was successful; although Tora couldn’t stand her manipulative behavior, Ms. Mole seemed completely convinced of quite the opposite.
Tora’s shoulder brushed gently against hers, hot breath rustling her hair as the host brushed it behind her ear. “You look beautiful tonight,” Tora whispered with a caress of her cheek.
“You’re lying. I came straight from work and I’m all gross,” she breathed heavily, blushing all the same.
“I swear it. Your radiance dizzies me, and I find myself fighting to hold back my passion.”
“Just thinking about all the other women you’ve told that same line to makes me jealous.”
A firm one-armed embrace around Ms. Mole’s waist was all the answer she needed to melt back into contentment. Tora and the other hosts perfected this kind of exchange between customer and callboy so well that they elevated it into an artform. The game of hosts was seduction, their product was lust, and the most trustworthy tools they used to reap a fortune from their clients were obvious flattery, gentle lies, and intangible promises. The hosts at Unmod Cafe played the game of love without ever feeling its sweet rewards, for hosts could not be successful if they let themselves fall for any of their customers. Doubting the morality of their job would likewise mean certain defeat and a banishment to obscurity.
Once his thirty minutes of torture at last came to an end, Tora feigned reluctance to leave and escorted Ms. Mole down the bright hallway back to the club floor. Among the lineup of headshots splayed across the wall, Tora’s piercing, hazel-eyed gaze was illuminated in bright lights in the center. As it was every time he passed by his picture when sober, he scarcely recognized the man staring back at him. He wondered if his parents would know him either if he were to ever be lucky enough to see them again.
He did not have long to ruminate on that thought, however. Miss Mole slyly grabbed onto the host’s belt loops and tried to wrestle them both into the women’s bathroom.
“Sorry Darling, not on the job, you know that,” Tora deflected. Not after work either, not ever, he thought to himself.
Miss Mole put on a disappointed pout but relaxed her grip on Tora’s pants nonetheless. Her jealous eyes scanned the crowd of customers, seeking out the host’s other clients. This woman was a nuisance; the second time she came to play she humiliated one of the club’s best clients so badly Takashi had to escort her outside or risk losing the victim’s business. Although customers came knowing the hosts’ business was to serve a plethora of women, it never seemed to stop any of them from trying to claim ownership of their chosen man. In their eyes, hosts were property up for sale; visiting them at the club was seen as a downpayment on their souls, as if by spending enough money over time they could own their host forever.
And yet all the hosts had seen the likes of Ms. Mole and other diehard clients waltzing into or out of other host clubs on a regular basis - they were all experts at a game the hosts devised. Although the hosts at Unmod Cafe fancied themselves as adept players, there were no illusions that they were merely pawns, a consumer good to be bought and tossed aside for the next adventure. It was exhausting, but many veterans - and Tora especially - couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Moreover, the longer one stayed in this line of work, the harder it became to do anything else. It was common for disgraced hosts to fall into organized crime.
Miss Mole’s roving jealous eyes were a sight to behold as she scanned the room, fixing a sour look at each of Tora’s other clients in turn. As she finally arrived at her usual table where her friends had been waiting, Tora tapped her ass lightly. Now the jealous eyes turned on her, and Ms. Mole’s peals of laughter cut through the loud pulsing of techno music.
The rest of the night was a blur for Tora. He and his trainee wove between about five tables of women at any given time, spending as much time as possible with each before they had to move on to the next. It was a difficult balance to make sure nobody felt ignored while still giving quality attention to everyone. At one point he almost collided directly with one of the lower-ranked hosts carrying a full tray of drinks, and the girls all shouted for a “make-up session” as the junior host stared daggers into Tora’s back. In answer to this, they performed a dance-off which ended in Tora losing on purpose to boost the honor of his competitor - he could use the boost in sales more than Tora could, he reasoned.
By the time midnight rolled around, he’d thrown up twice, nearly stumbled into three more people, and torn a hole in his jacket - a typical night. Tora was well and truly inebriated when Takashi hooked him around the shoulder so they could both greet two newcomers who walked in.
The women were rubbing their hands together by the entrance, their ruddy cheeks showing that they had just come in out of the brisk evening to find warmth in champagne and romance. Tora couldn’t help but think it was strange that they were coming in for the first time so late, especially with the way they were dressed - it was common for regulars, who often worked in the sex industries themselves, to come after shift, but not so much for rich women trying their first host experience.
As would be expected of the owner of a host club, Takashi was a real master at the game of purchased romance. He could be whatever each woman needed him to be at any given moment. If they wanted someone funny, his scatterbrained antics never failed to entertain; if they needed compassion, he could feign the deepest levels of sympathy without flaw; he used his age advantage and wealth of life experiences to scold and advise troubled ladies, and his control over his body language was so complete that he could look exhausted and pitiable on the floor, causing his customers to fuss over his health, and yet reveal it’s all been a ruse as he joked around in the break room. Naturally, all the other hosts looked up to his example. Few could imitate his repertoire to the same level of perfection, but he had personally mentored Tora from day one and so they were often the welcome crew for first timers.
Although just moments ago Takashi was scrunching his eyebrows in deep concern over the no-doubt sad story one girl at his table was telling him, his greeting to the newcomers as he approached them was vivacious. Tora did his best to follow suit despite his less than ideal state, making up for a slight slur with enthusiastic hand gestures. The women laughed, and their body postures instantly relaxed. Takashi gave them the host list in short order and then returned to his tables, leaving the girls to leaf through the hosts’ pictures at leisure.
New customers were always immediately given the book of headshots so they could shop for the man that best fit their ideal type. The first night they were allowed to meet with as many hosts as they wanted, but at the end they had to choose their permanent host. The choice could never be changed once a woman made up her mind, so they often deliberated over the headshots for quite some time.
The first thing Tora noticed about these two women was not their eyes, their firm breasts, stockinged legs or any one physical feature a man might prefer. The skilled host’s gaze instead took a quick visual tour of their accessories. Everything from the Armani coat, the dainty Rolex watch, Louis Vuitton and Coach purses, to the diamond jewelry displayed everything any host needed to know when sizing up a customer. Rich, elegant, yet insecure enough to feel the need to flaunt their fortunes - these were two ideal candidates for long-term clientele.
Tora leaned against the wall nearby so he could keep an eye on them without seeming to rush their decisions. It was obvious when they turned to his page, however, because the women gasped and began whispering about the pictured man’s hair - natural chestnut brown locks, short in the front but angling longer toward the back before cascading down into a thin ponytail flowing down his back. Tora strutted back over for the kill, whispering “The real deal is even better” with an embellished, flirtatious wink.
One of the girls looked up and audibly gasped in surprise. “Sorry, we didn’t realize you were still here!” she stammered.
“I’m sorry to startle you, Princess. I don’t mean to rush you, but have you decided? We close in an hour, and I want you to be able to get to know your chosen host.”
“Well, we’d like to spend some time with you, I think!” murmured the other woman in awe.
“I’m honored, ladies.” Tora held out each arm in a gesture for them to stand up and walk with him. “Let’s get right to it then, shall we?”
The two women exchanged glances before standing up and taking one of his arms with a smile. With a nod from Tora, his trainee met them at one of the empty tables in the open front part of the club. Tora was impressed to see the man was still on his feet, although he looked much worse for the wear; the man was halfway to being unintelligible as he recited the drink options.
While the women decided, Tora took the opportunity to make one last round to his other tables and hand them their tabs. On the way back to Ms. Mole’s impatiently waiting group of three Tora noticed Aki in the midst of a rather heated, one-way argument with a drunk and belligerent client. Just twenty feet from the altercation, Takashi and a crew of other guys were doing Unmod Cafe’s famous coordinated dance for a lucky customer who ordered a mid-priced champagne call. The hosts gyrated their hips suggestively while singing along to a trashy song. Tora found the whole routine degrading and completely ridiculous, but the girls ate it up. He was just thankful he’d been busy with the new clients and thus spared the humiliation this time. A whole group of girls clapped along, laughing excitedly in a mix of embarrassment, pride, and desire.
It took about ten minutes for Tora to make it back to his two new clients, who had succumbed to a sullen pout as his trainee tried making small talk. Tora waved him away as he approached and let him know he was to check in with the boss before leaving.
“So you finally dragged yourself back, huh?” the first guest needled. “ We were starting to think you were ignoring us, weren’t we?”
Her companion glanced nervously at her but in the end forced an apologetic smile. If they were looking for a fight there would be no right response to pacify them, so Tora instead chose one of Takashi’s techniques; he affected a fatigued look and plopped down between the two women, resting a head on the first one’s shoulder and looking up at her sheepishly.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. My other customers just wouldn’t let me slip away,” the host whined. “I would have much preferred to stay with you. Now, I believe some real introductions are in order. You already know my name, but I don’t know yours and that’s not fair, Princesses.”
Just as the girls were about to answer the speaker system came on and one of the hosts shouted “CHAMPAGNE CAAAAALL!” The song that was playing suddenly cut out, replaced by a pop song they always played whenever a bottle worth 100,000 yen or more was purchased. Tora did his best to ignore it; Takashi would understand, as he placed high importance on welcoming newcomers, but the girls’ attention dropped from Tora to the stage as the champagne call unfolded. Junior hosts scrambled to assemble a large pyramid of glasses into which they would pour several bottles worth of champagne while the lucky host led the ridiculous dance over to his customer’s table. A group sing-and-dance sequence of epic proportions proceeded. The club’s guests clapped, shouted, and prodded everyone to chug as much of the bubbly liquid as they could before passing it around until there was nothing left. Once the show was over, Tora gently nudged his guests and repeated his question.
The girl on the left was Junko, the daughter of the managing partner of a big law firm who Tora guessed to be around 24. She revealed she was finishing up law school and planned to join her daddy’s firm. Her petite frame was well-maintained, and her facial features were delicate to match. Her eyes, alluring saucers with warm brown irises, were surely a selling point for her. Haruka was Junko’s friend from high school, a rather serious-looking graduate student studying engineering at Keio University with a short bob and tired eyes. Despite their different paths of study, the bonds they formed as young teenagers kept them together.
In his inebriated and exhausted state Tora hadn’t noticed when he returned to them that their appearances were different than they’d been when they arrived, but as they talked an uneasy feeling slowly roiled up in his gut. He couldn’t quite put his finger on exactly why he felt so unsettled; they were beautiful, intelligent girls with plenty of daddy’s money to spend.
“So, what brings you two to your very first host club?” Tora asked, trying to bury his feelings with innocent conversation.
The girls exchanged mysterious glances, but it was Junko who spoke. “You did, little spirit walker. We caught your….alluring scent from all the way down the street and simply had to see for ourselves.”
Tora’s polite smile froze on his face. He could hardly register Junko’s odd words - what the hell was that supposed to mean? Then, to hide his confusion, he laughed. “Wow, I must say I’ve never heard that one before. Very funny, my dear. Strange, but funny.”
“Oh, but we’re not joking, Tora - if that’s what you’re calling yourself now.” Now it was Haruka who spoke. Her voice had grown mesmerizing and husky and her pointed gaze bored straight into Tora. In response he shifted uncomfortably, preparing to eject himself from the chair at a moment’s notice.
“I’m sorry, the alcohol must be making me hear things. What are you talking about?” he implored.
“You’re awakening. Soon enough, even your dimwitted self will catch on. We hope your ascension will be...explosive. This whole city reeks and deserves everything that’s coming. Whose side will you be on when it happens, spirit walker? ‘Cuz if it’s not ours, we’ll have to kill you later, and it’d be such a shame.”
“What...the fuck...are you talking about?!” The women smiled in response, and Tora noticed now that their mouths were inhumanly wide, their teeth monstrously sharp. And then there were their eyes; had they been black all along? There were hardly any whites visible! They were like soulless, hungry pits. He slapped himself in the face, first gently, then harder when their images remained the same. The pair laughed ugly, guttural cackles.
“Shit, oh shit.” Tora jumped up so fast his chair knocked backwards, but by the time he’d righted it the women were gone. Several newly minted 10,000 yen bills and empty glasses were all that remained on the table as proof that this terrifying exchange had taken place.
The first reaction Tora had was to run for the stairs and curl up on one of the sofas in the break room. He would have liked to say he was making sure the customers wouldn’t see him upset, but the truth of it was that he was too terrified to stay upstairs, lest the creepy duo come back. The door to the break room opened to admit Aki, who closed it behind him. He sat down wordlessly, giving Tora an opportunity to speak first. Several minutes of silence stretched out between them before Tora at last stopped hugging his knees and drew himself upright.
“I’m going crazy, Aki….” he mumbled. “Those two new girls I took… I don’t know… I looked at them, and they looked like monsters. And they were saying these awful things….”
“All of my clients look like monsters to me!” Tora shot him a deadly serious look. “Sorry. Maybe they drugged you,” Aki mused. “Maybe one of our rival clubs sent them to rough up our top host. I’d say they were successful - look at you, you’re shaking.”
“No….I didn’t have any of my drink at their table. It’s me, I’m going crazy. Fuck… you think Takashi’s gonna kick me out?” He rubbed his eyes, willing the sight of those mouths out of his memory - and failing.
“Look...we’ve all had our nights. Takashi’s not gonna fire you. Just go home, man. I’ll settle your accounts. I’ll see you tomorrow, OK? Maybe tomorrow let your lackey do all the drinking for you, try to detox a little. Don’t worry about anything but getting home in one piece.”
Tora nodded numbly and wobbled to his feet. His iron composure rusted away as soon as he was out of sight of the club. He barely made it to the nearest trash can before his stomach violently expelled the night’s decadence for the third time. It felt like a miracle that he made it home without further incident, but it was only his body’s familiarity with the route that helped ensure his safe return for his mind was absent. The sidewalk leading to the entrance of the building seemed to buckle under his feet, the railing spitefully slipping out of his grasp in a blunt refusal to catch his fall. Tora caught his balance at the last moment, his palms grazing the cement before straightening up.
He stumbled into the building and pushed blindly at the up button on the elevator. As the metal box lifted him six floors to his home, his bladder felt as if it stayed on the first floor, suddenly heavy and ready to drop through his pelvis. By the time he reached his door his fingers trembled so violently it took three times to fit the key into its lock. Once inside, he groped his way to the bathroom in the dark and then collapsed into his bed fully clothed.