Ink

men cage. Knowing the ink was after me, knowing that one wrong word could put the Yakuza on my tail. I shrieked at the top of my lungs and cracked the shinai down on my opponent.

“Point!” the referees shouted, and three white flags lifted from their sides. The match ended; I lost, but damn that point felt good. Now I knew why Tomohiro had taken ref-uge in kendo.

My set completed, I untied my helmet. Sweat trickled down my neck from under my headband, so I pulled that off as well and wiped at my face.

I heard a familiar kiai shout. Tomohiro.

I moved quietly along the lines of watching students. Watanabe saw me and motioned at an empty spot where I knelt to watch the match, my shinai lined up at my side.

The guy fighting Tomohiro, a white ribbon tied to his back, was about half a foot taller and his shoulders broader.

His footwork was tidy and fast, and he dodged attacks as if Tomohiro were stuck to the floor.

The guy’s kiai rattled through my rib cage and turned my insides to jelly. I’d heard lots of different shouts in practice, and they came in all kinds; Ishikawa’s was one of the worst, the way it shook around in my head. But this guy’s was controlled, less ruthless than Ishikawa’s. It was chilling, although it was hard to put my finger on exactly why. Maybe because it was so cold, so emotionally vacant, like this match wasn’t even an effort for him. Like he would snap you in two without a second thought.

“Point!” the referee shouted. My eyes flicked over to see the white flags rise. I wondered if the humidity in the gym had finally gotten to Tomohiro. The only opponent who ever gave him trouble was Ishikawa. But Watanabe had warned us about the caliber of the Katakou School team, and I watched with dread as the match ended.

Tomohiro missed a final tsuki hit and lost the match.

He pulled the men from his shoulders, and Ishikawa handed him a bottle of water. He gulped it down, the sweat rolling down his neck, spikes of copper hair poking out of his headband.

There was a final match—Ishikawa against the guy Tomohiro couldn’t beat. Tomohiro walked over and knelt beside me, resting his shinai on the floor with a clack.

“He’s tough,” he whispered, and I felt the heat of his breath on my ear. He said it just like that, as if nothing else had happened between us. I hated him for the way he could be so casual. I also hated him for making my insides melt just by sitting next to me.

“He’s from Katakou, right?” I asked, pretending I didn’t feel awkward.

He nodded. “Their star kendouka. He placed sixth in the nationals last year. Takahashi.”

So this was the famous Takahashi. “Doesn’t look that special.”

Tomohiro snorted. “I think that’s part of the act.”

Ishikawa and Takahashi were circling each other now.

They held each other at sword’s length, shinai clacking against each other as they stepped round and round.

Ishikawa lunged. It was a move that had scored a point against me in practice, but Takahashi parried and struck for the men. Ishikawa slipped out of the way, retreating across the arena until they were apart again.

“Okay, so maybe he’s good,” I admitted.

Tomohiro sat forward, eyes narrowed. I knew he was looking at the way Takahashi moved, the mistakes Tomohiro had made that had led to his defeat.

But Takahashi seemed f lawless as he parried Ishikawa’s next hit, and the next, and the time ticked by without either having a single point.

Ishikawa stumbled, wavering from foot to foot.

“It’s the heat,” Tomohiro murmured. Takahashi noticed, too, and lunged, swinging from the right.

“Point!” shouted the referees, lifting three white flags.

“Shit.” Tomohiro cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Sato! Ganbare! ”

Takahashi sprung forward. He leaned a little too far and Ishikawa smacked his shinai into the dou.

“Point!” Three red flags flashed upward.

“Yes!” Watanabe-sensei clapped from the sidelines.

Takahashi shifted to the left and then struck to the right, but Ishikawa blocked just in time. The loud crack echoed to the rafters.

Takahashi didn’t let up. He lunged over and over, forcing Ishikawa into a corner. Crack, crack, crack. The jarring kiais and the pounding of feet on the floor.

Takahashi swung; Ishikawa sidestepped and brought his shinai down hard. This was his chance.

The sword exploded on impact, huge splinters of wood spraying across the floor. The leather binding the slats together unraveled as what was left of the shinai connected with Takahashi’s head.

The shards clattered onto the f loor, into a tiny pool of dark blood.

The match stopped instantly. A tournament medic ran forward to check the two were all right and to find the source of the blood.

Only it wasn’t blood. I could see that, even if they couldn’t.

Because it was like my pen all over again.

I glared at Tomohiro. He only shook his head like it wasn’t his fault.

I started making a mental list of schools I could transfer to.

Ishikawa stooped to the tiny puddle and ran his fingers through. He looked over at Tomohiro. Takahashi followed his gaze and looked at us.

My heart almost burst from my chest. Could they tell I knew something? Did they know it was us? If they did, Ishikawa was going to have a lot of questions.

The medic finished her inspection—clean bill of health and no bleeding, surprise, surprise. The audience burst into applause. The referees deliberated for a tense moment and finally lifted their flags.

Red.

Watanabe gave Ishikawa hell for being lazy about taking care of his shinai, but behind the speech, his eyes were shining. Ishikawa was the winner and advanced to the prefecture finals. And so did Tomohiro, who scraped by thanks to his other matches.

Takahashi unbound his headband, and his jet-black hair flopped down around his face. His angled bangs almost covered one eye and trailed down to his ear, pierced with a shiny silver ring. He tucked two thick blond highlights behind his ears.

Oh my god.

It’s Jun.

My face turned as red as the flags. I looked away in case Tomohiro got the wrong idea, but he was already walking over to congratulate Ishikawa.

All I could think about was the ink. Was this my life now, to be punctuated with drips of ink wherever I went? And had the ink spilled the truth to Ishikawa?

And Jun. Takahashi Jun shaking hands with Tomohiro and Ishikawa, the three of them chatting there, not realizing they were standing on the edge of a dangerous cliff. Maybe Tomohiro knew; maybe he’d gone to smooth things over.

He’s here, the boy who draws things. Sketches that look alive, I’d told him. You look flustered again.

I felt like I’d fallen into a cold river. I’d told Jun about Tomo hiro’s drawings. He’d put it together and we’d be found out.

I watched them laugh as they chatted.

I was overreacting, I knew it. Why would Jun invent something impossible?