Ink

boy of incredible talent. Ishikawa speaks highly of you, you know.”

Tomohiro said nothing. The Korean guy came over and slammed a bottle of green tea in front of me. I looked up at his face, but he was already turning away.

“I think we could do a lot for each other,” said Hanchi.

“Not interested.” Tomohiro’s voice sounded so dark it almost made me shiver. It was like his don’t-give-a- crap attitude but more intimidating, like he could actually hold his own against these guys.

“Ah,” said Hanchi. “But I don’t think you’ve considered what a spectacle you made of yourself when you sketched that dragon.”

Tomohiro’s eyes went wide for a moment before he forced the expression off his face. I wondered if anyone else noticed.

“We can protect you, Yuu. We can take care of those close to you. We can protect your girlfriend.”

In a sharp voice, he said, “Ex-girlfriend. She’s not part of this.” The word ripped through me; it was probably a trick to throw them off, but I remembered then that we hadn’t made up. Maybe we were broken up. Or maybe he was protecting me the only way he could. So how come it still hurt so much to hear it?

And reality check, why do I even care in a room with gangsters and loaded guns? Still working on the priorities, I see, Greene.

“Ah,” said Hanchi. “Well. But I’ve heard you still draw inspiration from her, so the specifics don’t matter.” He muttered something and one of the men tossed a pad of paper in front of Tomohiro. Hanchi reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pen, clicking the end and placing it down on the pad.

“What’s this for?” Tomohiro said.

Hanchi smiled. “You don’t have to pretend with us. You’re not the first Kami we’ve come across. But it’s been a while.

Most of them can’t get the drawing off the page, Yuu. I know you can do better.”

“What’s a Kami?” Tomohiro said in a bored tone. He looked up at Hanchi, and I could see the dark challenge that radiated from Tomohiro’s narrowed eyes. A slick smile curved its way onto his lips.

What the hell? It better be an act, I thought. These guys could kill us, and he’s enjoying it?

Hanchi frowned, squeezing his hand into a fist.

“Don’t play around, Yuu,” he said. The friendliness was starting to drop from his voice.

Tomohiro reached for the tea bottle and twisted the cap, chugging down a mouthful and wiping his mouth with the back of his arm.

“So what’s that for?” Hanchi smirked, pointing at the wristband.

Shit.

“I play kendo,” Tomohiro said. “I have a weak wrist.”

Hanchi motioned at the Korean guy, who stalked toward Tomohiro and yanked the wristband off his arm, revealing the stitched-up gash along his wrist for all of them to gape at. It was pink around the edges, crisscrossed by the dozens of other cuts and scars that trailed up his arm.

“Those kendo injuries?” the Korean guy sneered.

“I’m a cutter,” Tomohiro said through gritted teeth. “I have entrance exams coming up. It’s stressful. You do the math.”

Hanchi laughed. “Sorry, Yuu,” he said. “We’re not buying it. I heard from Ishikawa you used to be quite the artist in the day. Let’s start with something simple.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wallet. He spread the leather and flipped through, the bills slicking against each other as he pulled one out. He bent over the table and spread the ten thousand yen at the top of the pad. “Draw this,” he said. “If you can do it, you can keep it. My gift to you.”

“I can’t draw,” said Tomohiro.

The Korean guy pulled a gun from his back and slowly lifted it to me. My heart drummed in my ears.

“Can you draw now?” Hanchi said.

Tomohiro stared for a minute, his fists shaking.

“If you’re not a Kami, then why is it a problem?” asked Hanchi.

The Korean guy cocked the gun.

“Shit, Yuuto, draw the damn bill!” Ishikawa shouted. I looked over at his swollen face, riddled with blue- and-yellow bruises. He looked so defeated, so small among these punks.

Tomohiro’s fingers slid along the paper until they reached the pen. He closed them gently around it, lifting it upright to draw.

It’s worth my life, but it isn’t worth yours.

“Tomo, don’t draw,” I whispered.

He didn’t answer. And then his hand slid across the page, the patchwork of scars gliding along the table edge as we watched, his secret exposed to everyone.

He sketched slowly, looking from the bill to the page. Beads of sweat trailed down his forehead and clung to his bangs. I knew he was trying to control the ink, to disguise what he was. But with me beside him, he didn’t have a chance.

He shaded in the details, sketching in the two pheasants on the back of the note. I saw the edges of the bill flicker, almost move. He hesitated for a minute, his head falling forward and his bangs fanning into his eyes. Then he shook them out and kept shading.

The corner of the sketch was curling up, the way the real bill did. The pheasants starting flicking their heads around, pecking at the ground.

“Tomo, stop,” I whispered. I looked at his eyes. They were flooding with black, his pupils growing too large. “You have to stop.”

I reached over and pinched the back of his leg as hard as I could.

He dropped the pen and it rolled in a slow circle across the page.

“Let’s see,” said Hanchi, reaching over to pick the paper up.

As he lifted the pad, the sketch fell right off the page and fluttered to the table.

Hanchi reached over and picked up the bill.

“Su-ge,” he said in a low voice. Everyone watched in stunned silence.

The sketch looked just like the bill. There was still a drawing on the paper, but it looked blurry and made my head ache when I stared at it.

“One problem, though,” Hanchi said as he flipped it back and forth in his hands. He held the note right in front of Tomo hiro’s eyes. “It’s black-and-white.”

“It’s a pen sketch,” I said. “What did you expect?”

“I can’t use this,” Hanchi said. “Are you messing around with me?”

Tomohiro shook his head, breathing heavily. A trail of ink trickled from his shirtsleeve down to his wrist, where it dripped onto the paper.

Splotch, splotch.

“All my drawings are black-and-white,” Tomohiro said.

“I only do calligraphy and ink wash.”

“This is no good,” Hanchi said. “Draw something else.

Get him a sumi and an inkstone.”

“No!” I said, then clamped my hand over my mouth. Hanchi raised an eyebrow.

“Ah, I think we’ve hit on something here,” he said with a smile. “Your…abilities only work with raw ink.”

“Look,” Tomohiro snapped. “I’m not interested in working for the Yakuza, and I don’t know what Satoshi told you, but I can’t make dragons appear in the sky. Do you know how crazy that sounds?”

“You just sketched counterfeit money, Yuu.”

“And you saw how pathetic it was. I’m no good at this, okay? Let us go.”

Hanchi sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “Let’s try again, hmm?”

Sunglasses came in, and the sight of him sent prickles up my spine. He put down an inkstone, a sumi ink stick and a sumi brush for Tomohiro, while the Korean guy brought a small dish of water. They backed into the group of Yakuza watching curiously.

“So you can’t draw money. There are other things we need.