Debt, love… Fight!

One Hundred Fifty Seven Million.

If I got a hundred yen every time I felt wronged, I’d be rich.

And that would be a huge relief, because right now I barely have seven thousand yen left to get through the week. It’s not enough. Again.

With a pitiful sigh, I put my bankbook back in my backpack, tucked into its waterproof cover, which I then zip into an inner pocket.

One hundred and fifty-seven million.

I run the numbers in my head, as if wallowing in my misery will do any good. One hundred and fifty-seven million.

I grit my teeth and roll up my sleeves in the fine second-hand coat I bought more than three years ago. It has a tear in one of the sleeves, and as much as I’ve tried to fix it, my sewing skills are not too far from my culinary skills, I’m terrible at both.

One hundred and fifty-seven million.

At seventeen, it didn’t seem like much to me. Of course, back then, I had no clue about anything—how expensive living alone would be, how tough it’d be to work non-stop, or the curveballs life as an adult would throw my way. And that everything, or at least almost everything, is solved much better and faster and easier if you have money.

I walk toward the restaurant with determination. We open at ten, and the first customers will be here soon. Mrs. O. always starts cooking at six am, that’s why I have to hurry. I run the remaining distance until I am in front of the still closed doors. I venture down the side street to the kitchen door and knock twice. I wait until I see Mrs. O.’s grumpy face greeting me with her usual, “Good morning Akane, hurry up.”

It’s not that Mrs. O. is surly, it’s just that when she is preparing the ramen broths she is too focused to have a coherent conversation. That’s one thing I admire about her, that ability to be so absorbed in her task, in her love of cooking to the point that everything else ceases to exist.

That kind of dedication is something I admire. It’s something I miss.

I head for the staff room, tie my long hair in a low ponytail and put on my uniform apron with a tight knot around my waist. It’s an ordinary day, the sky is overcast and some rain is predicted, I’m sure everyone is in the mood for a nice bowl of ramen.

Even though the pay is a little low, this is one of the few jobs I’ve been able to keep, and it’s not for lack of interest!

My qualities have always been questionable, especially when it comes to dexterity and balance, especially with a tray in my hands. I still find it hard to understand why Mrs. O. gave me a chance. The first day I dropped almost a fifth of the orders, in fact it was a miracle she didn’t fire me on the spot.

I guess she took pity on me. That’s the story of my life. I survive thanks to the kindness of many people, or in spite of their efforts to bring me down.

“Akane, can you open up?” says Mrs. O. from the kitchen, and I rush to open the restaurant doors, hang the curtain at the entrance and put up the signs in the street announcing the special offer for today: Extra egg and dumplings for free.

As I finish setting everything up, my phone begins to vibrate insistently in the back pocket of my pants. I bring the device to my ear and hold it to my shoulder as I balance on the side curtain.

«Akane?» I recognize my sister Kasumi’s voice at the other end of the line.

“Sorry Kasumi, I’m kinda busy right now” I say while straightening the sign.

«And when aren’t you? I was calling you because I need a favor, can you babysit this Saturday?»

“Saturday is the busiest day at the restaurant, and I also have a shift at the market early on Sunday. I have to help with two truckloads of orders.”

“I can pay you better than those people. Oh sister, you shouldn’t work so hard,» she laments with a deep sigh. «I’m sure you’re not even eating well».

“I’m not going to charge you for babysitting my niece, and I get free ramen,” I reply, walking back into the restaurant and standing behind the counter, opening and checking the cash register.

«You can’t have ramen for lunch and dinner, it’s not healthy!»

“That’s why I make up for it by going for a run,” I quipped self-satisfied, but my sister doesn’t seem to agree.

«Stop by the clinic to at least say hello,» she says resignedly, and I nod, as if she can see the gesture.

“I promise to go next week. Give my regards to Tofu.”

Kasumi finally yields. «Akane… You know you can actually quit, right?»

“I have work to do, talk to you later.”

I put the phone down on the bar more roughly than I would like. I take a breath, slap my cheeks to shake off the tiredness, and try to cheer myself up,

«Come on Akane!» I shout internally to myself. I must not lose sight of my goal for a single moment.

One hundred and fifty-seven million.

The first customers soon appear and I give them my best smile.

“Welcome!” I hasten to pour two glasses of water and take orders.

The work at the restaurant never lets up, and that forces me to pay attention. It forces me not to think. After more than a dozen orders, my co-worker appears. I look at my watch, we’ve been open for three hours.

“Everything all right?” I ask as I finish writing down an order.

“Today I had classes until noon, I forgot to tell Mrs. O.” He says with an apologetic smile. He knows he has left me alone, but I can’t blame him either. How can I, when he has that divine smile?

Shinnosuke is in his last year of college, with just a few classes left before graduating. He works at the restaurant and also teaches at an academy. He says he’s saving up to go on a trip around the world. I guess that’s what people my age do with their money.

I sigh, trying not to let it show how hard it is for me to be angry at him, try as I might.

“Okay, but it’s your turn to do the dishes. Hurry up,” I say with a flirtatious smile, or at least I try to make it look like one. I’m terrible when it comes to flirting.

I am immediately overcome with embarrassment and rush to attend to a table that seems to have finished eating.

Shinnosuke is dressed in an apron, wearing a short T-shirt that shows off his arms. He’s not a particularly muscular guy, but I like watching him carry the trays. I also like it when he snorts, or when he forgets which orders go to which table. In his own way he’s much more of a mess than I am.

I take a short lunch break, Mrs. O. serves me a plate of noodles with soy sauce, rice and miso soup, which I devour like the poor and hungry person I am. When I finish I clean my plate and return to the task at hand.

When Shinnosuke sees me back, he winks at me. I know he is relieved that I am also in the dining room. I continue waiting tables, taking out dishes, collecting bills… The afternoon falls as my strength does. The doorbell rings again.

“Welco…!” I greet once again and halfway through my smile stops.

The door closes behind him and I blink. His imposing figure occupies the entire narrow aisle that runs between the tables. He looks at me, I nervously gulp as he occupies one of the bar stools. I force myself to move my feet, pick up a few plates and carry them to the sink, where Shinnosuke is determined to leave them sparkling clean.

“Is something wrong?” he asks looking up, and I shudder. I guess asking him to take the order for me is not something I should do.

“Nothing’s wrong”

I fill a glass with cold water and get ready to serve my curious customer. I breath, slowly, and head back to the bar, serve him a glass of cold water and look at him attentively.

“What would you like to eat?” I ask, taking out my pad. He looks at me and seems to be pondering.

“Today’s Special,”  he answers in a slightly husky, very masculine voice. I feel a tingle in my knees, which I’m pretty sure is fear.

The guy who has entered the restaurant is clearly a gang member, a street fighter. Long hair pulled back in a tight braid, bruises on his face, earrings, baggy and flashy clothes. All of him seems enveloped by a strange aura that only signals danger.

But worst of all are his eyes. How can a japanese man have eyes of such a distinct color? Blue and steely, sharp at the edges, almost suspicious. I shudder again and force myself to move.

«Today’s Special,» I croak as I reach the window overlooking the kitchen, trying to take a breath of air, although it’s more like steam emanating from the pots and pans and stews, and count to five, trying to calm myself.

A fighter, that weird guy is a fighter. I’m sure he is.

A different kind of emotion comes over me, a dispassionate feeling peppered with sadness. Is it envy?

Mrs. O. places a perfect bowl of ramen on the counter and a plate of dumplings, I take them and head towards him. When I put the food in front of him, I try not to let my hands shake too much.

«Here it is, I hope you enjoy it,» I say, and his strange eyes stay on me for a second. I understand that they are assessing me with an implacable fixated gaze, with the learned wisdom of a life that depends on sizing up strangers.

«Thank you,» he says, grabs his chopsticks and begins to eat.

I breathe out and go to attend to the other customers, but I feel his eyes, his powerful aura that takes over everywhere his gaze lands on. Gradually the place begins to empty, Shinnosuke finishes with the dishes and helps clear the tables, for which I am very thankful.

The strange guy is still at the bar, taking his sweet time. Finally he gets up to pay, I see his powerful hands pull out a black cloth wallet with worn edges. And despite the bruise he sports on his jaw and the band-aid near his eye, despite everything about him screaming at me to be careful, deep down I think I must not be so shallow as to make the mistake of judging him by his appearance.

I give him a gigantic smile when I see that he hasn’t left anything on his plate.

«Did you like it?» I asked, cocking my head slightly to one side.

He stops his movements, moistens his lips and looks away. He nods curtly and leaves the money on the bar. He remains thoughtful for a few moments and then leaves without further comment. He closes the door gently on his way out despite his size and looking like a brute gangster member.

Shinnosuke whistles at my back.

«What a weirdo,» he says as continues to sweep the room.

.

..

…

On my way home, well into the night, I mentally review my schedule. If I could manage to better balance my shifts at the restaurant I could pick up a third hourly job, something simple like handing out ads, though it doesn’t pay much.

I head to the public baths, just a short walk from the guesthouse I’ve been staying at for six years. The attendant greets me as I hand over the usual 240 yen. She gives me a special price—others pay 320. She as well as many other merchants in the neighborhood have taken a liking to me because of my circumstances, and I am in no position to refuse such kindness.

I take off my clothes and take my time washing up, until the soap smell overpowers the ramen scent and there’s no trace left of sweat or the long workday. I let myself relax for a few minutes in the bath. At this hour, I’m alone, and I sigh in relief. This is as close to a rest as I can afford.

“So this is where the commoners hide out,” I hear that nauseating voice and my eyes snap open.

For that damn witch to show up here, in the only place I can relax, is the last straw.

“Hi Kodachi, are all eight bathtubs in your mansion broken?” I ask with derision, to which she crumples her face, and I can see that she is truly repulsed by the place. She then puts a hand to her face and gently covers her scalpel-sculpted nose with the back of her fingers.

She has had the delicacy to follow the rules and only wears a towel knotted around her torso. At least she doesn’t seem to be looking for a physical fight today, only a verbal one. Or so I hope.

Kodachi sits on one of the stools with a shudder and starts washing up. She joins me in the bath shortly after, and though she climbs in carefully, I can tell she’s hiding her disgust.

“Why are you here?” I ask tensely, knowing exactly what to expect from Kodachi Kuno.

“The shack you live in is terrible, and you spend all day in that restaurant that smells like pork broth. I don’t know how my brother pretends to…”

“What do you want, Kodachi?” I interrupt before she goes on with her insufferable rant about my life.

“The neighbors have complained to the manager, and the manager has passed the complaints onto me. Apparently that house is a nest of stray cats and the wood is full of rot. I just came to remind you of your obligations.”

I take a breath, swallow hard and try to speak as clearly as possible. “I don’t know how I can help you, you know very well that that house is no longer mine.”

Kodachi draws nearer in the bath, she looks like an eel gliding through the water, just as dangerous and slippery.

“And you know very well that you have an agreement with my brother, when do you plan to fulfill it?”

“I’m trying,” I insist, chewing out the words.

“Not hard enough.”

“The day you have to earn your own money without the backing of rich parents is the day you can tell me how to do things. In the meantime…”

“That filthy dojo is filled with cat shit and termites,” she proclaims with a tinge of superiority in her words that is obviously only given by the knowledge that she will never lack anything in life, no matter how lazy she is. I will not allow it.

“And what are you going to do about it?” I ask, standing up, naked in front of her and putting my hands on my hips. 

She also stands up. “Do you want to fight here or outside?” she says, seething with anger.

“Outside.” I shake my head and run like lightning for a towel, put on my clothes and let my hair down again. That freak does the same and we both walk through the doors of the public baths in a flash, to the under-construction lot, a wasteland, a block away.

The rich girl stands in front of me, carrying a bag across her chest and from it she pulls out two rhythmic gymnastics clubs. Of course she was already prepared to fight with me, she’s wearing her tight leggings and a jersey on top. She’s a classic crazy woman. I am too tired for this.

“If I win, you will talk to my brother and give up the deal.”

“That’s not going to happen,” I say, clenching my fists and adopting a defensive posture.

And she attacks. I see her coming—she’s fast, but I’m quicker. I dodge the maces she throws at my head, and after ducking, I try to land a punch to her abdomen, but miss by a hair.

Kodachi jumps away and attacks again, this time she pulls a ribbon out of who knows where and gets me with it, the damn ribbon cuts like a knife, I know that well. I dodge it, but not before it manages to catch on the sleeve of my old coat, I roll on the floor and click my tongue. I gasp knowing that this time there’s no way to mend this tear, I’m so pissed off by myself now.

I run towards her and throw a series of blows, kicks, punches, I manage to hit her in one hand and she releases the ribbon. She somersaults to my left trying to run away, but this time I’m not going to let her, I grab her by one arm and execute a hold just like my father taught me. Kodachi whimpers and I pull my arm for a powerful punch more than willing to smash it into her fake nose.

I throw the punch, and stop.

Sweat runs down my temple and a knot forms in my stomach when I think of the consequences. I can’t do it, not without facing Kuno. Not without risking everything.

When she understands that I’m not going to hit her, Kodachi allows herself to laugh with her insufferable cackle.

“What’s the matter, poor broke girl? Have you already realized that you can’t win?”

I let her go, and she backs off. At least instinct doesn’t fail her, I’m one more provocation away from sending it all to hell.

“I don’t want to see your face, Kodachi,” I say, turning around and heading back to the guesthouse. I am frankly exhausted.

And in my tiredness I do not notice that there is a shadow, someone who has watched the whole scene with interest, and a smile on his lips.

.

..

…

Despite everything, I go for a run.

The sun hasn’t risen yet, and the dawn fog is cold and desolate, forming thick clouds that make it hard to see as I run.

One hundred and fifty-seven million.

I stop, as usual, in front of what used to be my house—the old dojo, the pride of my family. The property stands mighty despite the passage of time, but on the thick wooden door there are nailed boards and a no trespassing sign.

I make sure no one’s watching, then I leap and sneak inside. I don’t do it every day, but today I especially feel the need to break the rules. The place is in a desperate state. Weeds have overrun it, and the path is completely hidden by bushes, dry leaves, and garbage.

The doors are locked and nailed shut, impossible to open, so I head for the only building I can still access. The dojo has a movable wooden panel on the facade, creating a gap, a small opening. I fixed it myself before everything fell apart. At sixteen, with no carpentry skills, I did the best I could. I never thought that the loose panel at the back of the room would be so useful.

I push it a few centimeters, and the wood gives way. I see the opening. It’s small, but I have plenty of room. In an instant I’m back home.

The dojo smells of old wood and must. It is dark and I doubt that it will work if I turn on the lights. In any case I don’t need alarmed neighbors to call Kuno again, so I move through the gloom with the safety of being in a familiar place.

I sigh as my feet make the familiar wooden floors creak. In the pre-dawn gloom, I begin my kata practice.I haven’t forgotten them, or the feeling of the art, the focus of the fight. That is what I miss most.  Going back to my dojo, cleaning it and training in it. Now I have to settle for doing it in the open fields in the safety of the early hours of the day.

I finish a few minutes later, and with a silent whisper, I say goodbye to my home.I step back onto the street and jog back to my room, but not before a quick stop at the public restrooms.

.

.

..

…

I rush to open the restaurant, grateful for the routine. It’s Saturday and on Saturdays we have a lot of work to do.

Shinnosuke is late again, as usual.

It gives me plenty of time to set up the tables and chairs, put out the signs, update the specials (today’s pumpkin tempura and fish tofu), clean the bar, and restock the napkin holders and chopsticks.

My co-worker shows up almost an hour later, disarming me once again with that damn smile and his sweet eyes.

“Sorry, I stayed up late studying,” he says, his dark circles giving him away. How can you blame him when he’s working so hard to fulfill his dreams?

“You can’t leave me alone in the dining room today, it’s Saturday,” I reply, giving him a slight reprimand, which he takes with his usual good humor.

“I know. Do you want to wash dishes or handle tables?” he asks as he heads to the back of the restaurant to change.

“Tables,” I answer, grateful to be spared the ordeal of cleaning the dishes.

Soon, the rush begins. Customers arrive steadily from early in the morning, and by noon the restaurant is full of ramen bowls, orders, plates piled up, and glasses of drinks. I don’t even have five minutes to sit down or eat.

It’s past noon when he shows up again. He has new bruises on his face, and wears a wide, unbuttoned shirt. His hair is disheveled and tied in an untamed braid. He looks at me.

“Welcome,” I smile at him, and he nods as he takes his place at the bar again, a single seat.

“The weird guy is back,” I hear Shinnosuke mutter behind me. I frown, wanting to tell him he shouldn’t speak ill of customers.

I straighten up and approach him with a glass of cold water.

“What will it be today?” I ask, trying not to let my exhaustion show in my smile or gestures.

“The special of the day,” he answers in his rough, masculine voice.

“Coming right up,” I reply, turning around with the order. I immediately serve him, and he looks at me silently, then starts eating with an enviable appetite. My stomach growls traitorously, he stops and frowns as he evaluates me.

“You haven’t eaten?” he asks, and I blush helplessly. For a stranger to worry about my health is pretty embarrassing.

“I haven’t had time… Saturdays are busy,” I excuse myself, trying not to meet those sharp blue eyes. He pushes his food around thoughtfully with his chopsticks, and I step back, recovering my smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I have orders to take.”

I leave without waiting for another answer. What must he think of me? That I’m a poor, starving woman with a miserable job? Once the bulk of the customers leaves, I’ll ask Mrs. O for something from the kitchen. I’m certainly not going to faint from hunger, I’m used to hardship anyway.

The street fighter gets up after a while and leaves the money in the cash register near the bar. He turns before heading out the door and I bid him farewell with a polite nod. I don’t eat until several hours later.

.

..

…

Sundays are even worse.

My job at the market involves helping out at various fruit and vegetable stands, unloading trucks and arranging the merchandise. IIt’s hard work, but it pays well, and the effort of lifting and carrying boxes keeps my muscles in perfect shape. It’s like going to the gym for five hours straight, or so I tell myself as I finish emptying the last truck and wipe my forehead with a towel.

The delivery driver hands me the usual envelope.

“You work hard for a girl,” he says as he lights a cigarette. I throw him daggers with my eyes but bite my tongue. I need the money, I can’t afford luxuries like responding to a misogynistic creep.

I count the money.

“See you next week?” I ask, tucking the envelope into my pants. He nods and heads back to his truck.

“Akane,” one of the women at the vegetable stalls calls me over. I approach, and she hands me a bag full of fresh vegetables. “Here, take it home. There are oranges too,” she says, winking at me. I smile brightly.

“Thank you so much!” I exclaim, bowing before starting my way back, wishing I could wash off my sweat at the public baths.

But luck isn’t on my side.

Just before I arrive, still sweating, with the afternoon settling peacefully around me, I run into the last person I want to see. And he’s waiting for me.

“Not now, Kuno,” I say, trying to ignore him and walk past. But he just has to block my way, slowing me down. He’s much taller than I am, but if my life didn’t depend on him, I’m pretty sure I could take him down in a fair fight.

He dresses impeccably, with his fancy suit and his perfect camel coat, without wrinkles or stains. Even his shoes look freshly shined.

“You’ve been avoiding my calls,” he pouts, feigning pain. I roll my eyes and fold my arms.

“I’m exhausted, say what you have to say and let me go,” I counter uninterested.

“Then I’ll get straight to the point: You have entered the dojo.”

I try not to let my astonishment show, tying my hair to save time.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply, feeling bile rise in my throat. How did he find out?

“I set up cameras, the neighbors have been complaining about stray cats. I would say one particular kitten is to blame.”

“I doubt it,” I reply, wanting to shut him up. I bite my lip and try to dodge him, but he stops me. His hand grips my arm, squeezing it, not letting me go.

“You look like a hobo,” he jeered, looking at my sweaty appearance, my torn coat sleeve, my worn-out sneakers. I know that everything he sees scares him, and that makes me very happy.

“Courtesy of your sister,” I answer trying to free myself. He lets me go, deep down he understands that he shouldn’t piss me off.

“It doesn’t have to be that way, you know,” he says in a sweet, honeyed tone of voice, and he puts a hand to my cheek, which I push away in disgust. “We could come up with a better arrangement.”

“In your dreams, Kuno,” I spit, feeling beyond insulted. Fed up, I’m fed up. I walk away down the street when I hear him raise his voice.

“How much have you managed to save over the years? Ten? Fifteen million? You know it’s not enough, Akane Tendô. At some point you’ll understand, and I’ll be waiting for you.”

I try not to listen to him and start running. I’m tired, I’m dirty, I’m hungry. I run until I’m sure I’ve given him the slip.

One hundred and fifty-seven million.

That is the price I agreed with Kuno Tatewaki for my house and my dojo. At seventeen years old it seemed to me a figure as enormous as any other and I thought in my foolish naivety that it would only take me a few years to collect them.

Kuno is wrong, I don’t have ten or fifteen million, I have almost twenty. I save every measly yen I collect and try not to spend a single one, and this is the result. Still not enough. If only there were a bank willing to finance me, things would be quite different, but no one will give a young, single woman with a precarious job a loan.

I have no illusions, I know that I still have a lot of work ahead of me, but if I make an effort, if I keep at it and don’t give up, I will succeed.

I will return home.

I stop, frustration runs through me like a river, I feel it is unstoppable. I clench my fists and unload all my anger, all my days, dreams and sweat against one of the lamp posts. I feel the punch to my bones, the crunch against my skin. I withdraw my injured hand and grit my teeth.

I can’t hit Kuno, so I’ll have to be satisfied with this for now.

.

..

…

“Akane, can you open the door?” Mrs. O. calls from the kitchen. I smile, as I do every day.

“I’m coming,” I say cheerfully, Shinnosuke is late again.

My right hand hurts. I’ve bandaged it to hide the open skin on my knuckles—and the scrapes and bruises. I haven’t taken any painkillers, it’s not like I’m going to buy them just for a sore hand. I put up the posters outside, including a big one for the special of the day.

I put my hands on my hips and look at my work satisfied. It will be cold today too, I’m sure we’ll sell a lot of ramen.

The day starts, and the orders follow soon after. Bowls of ramen pile up in the sink as I balance the tray in my hands and inevitably end up soaking my bandages in the sink. I click my tongue at the sting of the wounds. Still I have no time to waste, I look up when I hear the door open and meet the sharp blue eyes of my curious customer.

“Welcome,” I try to smile, stepping out from behind the bar. I dry my hands on my apron, letting out a small painful groan, and just then Shinnosuke deigns to make his presence known.

He hurriedly closes the door and walks past me.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he whispers in my ear, making me blush, but I look at him stubbornly, unwilling to let go of my anger or my bad mood. I take a breath, fill a glass with water and place it in front of the mysterious fighter, who doesn’t seem to have missed a single detail of our conversation.

“What will it be?” I ask as his gaze shifts from the glass to my bandaged hand, then finally to me.

“You’re hurt,” he points out, stating the obvious. I hide my arm behind my back, my mouth turning into a straight line.

“You too,” I reply, lifting my chin, referring to the bruise on his jaw and the band-aids next to his left eye.

“How did you get those wounds?” he insists. I dodge his gaze, unsure if he’s curious or just rude.

“I fought with a pole. And you?”

He laughs, shyly—and to my surprise, it’s a perfect smile.

“I just got into a fight,” he confesses without taking his eyes off me. “Your co-worker  is not very punctual…” he says while pointing to the service door through which Shinnosuke has disappeared. I shrug my shoulders, it is impossible to deny the obvious.

“He’s busy” 

“So are you” he insists, twisting his head in a gesture that strikes me as feline, dangerous. I don’t understand how I’ve let our conversation get to this point, but I clear my throat and insist.

“The special of the day?” I ask with my best fake smile. He grunts hoarsely, for such a big guy that sound should intimidate me, but it doesn’t even a little bit.

“Yes,” he concludes, not before returning his gaze to the hand I am trying to hide.

Mrs. O. immediately hands me a bowl full of extra noodles, another bowl of rice and eggplant tempura.

“Mrs. O., he ordered today’s special. No extra noodles or rice,” I say confused, Mrs. O. raises an eyebrow as if I am the one who doesn’t know about the orders.

“He is a regular customer, and it is obvious that he needs the energy.”

“He’s been here three times,» I sigh, placing the plates on the tray. With the boss, it’s not worth arguing—she knows how to handle her business. I take the order to the street fighter and he himself is surprised by the quantity. “It’s on the house.” I nod towards the kitchen, he softens his sharp look.

“Take off the bandages—they’re soaked. They’ll only get your wounds infected”, he says in an authoritative tone. The worst part is, I know he’s right.

“I’ll do it on my break.”

“You take breaks?” He smiles as if I’ve just told him a joke. The jerk seems to think he knows everything about the restaurant just by showing up a couple of times.

“When I get the chance.”

“Your partner takes his breaks,” he says scathingly, and I bristle at the impertinence, what is he implying?

“Eat the noodles, they’re going to be mushy,” I snapped, turning to tend to other tables, and that doesn’t seem to amuse him as I hear him mumble a curse as I’m walking away.

Serves him right for butting in. It’s my small win of the day, making a huge guy angry, a terrifying-looking fighter. Shortly after, I turn to look at him discreetly, he’s like an enormous, powerful muscular panther, all contained under those baggy clothes that fail to hide his impressive anatomy. As I’m stealthily staring he turns too, and hunts me like the predator he is, our eyes meet and he looks surprised.

My heart skips a step, I don’t know why I blush and rush to clean a table. The embarrassment is so great that I just want to be swallowed up by the earth. I hide for a few minutes in the kitchen and wait for him to finish his ramen and leave.

“Akane, are you hiding?” asks Mrs. O. I put a finger on my lips trying to get her to play along, but unfortunately her warning gesture makes me shuffle back into the dining room.

And he is gone. On the one hand I feel relief, and on the other hand something similar to uneasiness. Shinnosuke is serving some customers who have just come in and I go to his usual place, the one he occupies on a stool at the bar and remove the empty plates. Lifting the bowl I find a paper napkin with something written on it.
«Clean the wound NOW.»

I raise my eyebrows as I re-read the message, immediately feeling the sting of my knuckles, the irritated skin under the bandage. I tuck the napkin in my pants pocket and take a break. As much as it annoys me, that guy knows what he’s talking about.

.

..

…

“You don’t mind closing up? It’s just that I have a paper due tomorrow,” Shinnosuke says with his usual sheepish look. I roll my eyes, he’s supposed to be paid the same as me. I don’t know who I’m fooling anyway, I’m easily swayed by his kind words. “I owe you one, tell me what you want in return,” he tells me seriously, and I can think of so many, many things.

“Ice cream,” I answered, blushing all the way to the roots of my hair. It’s been months since I’ve had ice cream.

“That’s all?” He smiles, satisfied with the deal. “Well, next Sunday…”

“On Sundays I work at the market,” I quickly interrupt him.

“The day after tomorrow, when we close at seven o’clock,” he continues.

“Oh, I should go see my sister that day, I haven’t visited her in weeks,” I blurt, full of regret. “How about Tuesday next week? Even if we close at nine o’clock there are a couple of places that…”

“I have an exam on Wednesday,” he says with a frown.

“Oh, well, maybe another time.”

“Sure, another time,” he smiles as he says goodbye and walks out the door. I plop down on a stool, what the fuck was that? Is my life so sad that I don’t even have time to accept an invitation for dessert?

Simply pathetic.

I slap my cheeks, trying to pull myself together. Mrs. O. has already left, so I clean the tables, stack the chairs, sweep the entire place, and scrub thoroughly. By the time I’m done it’s already past ten o’clock at night. I reek of soup and all I’ve eaten today are three bites of leftover dumplings.

I take off my apron, put on my old torn coat, turn off the lights. 

One hundred and fifty-seven million.

I grab my keys, throw my backpack over my shoulder.

One hundred and fifty-seven million.

How many years? I count on my fingers—my hand aches. The blood shows through the dry bandage, but at least it doesn’t sting anymore.

«Ten, twenty, thirty… forty years,» I conclude, finishing my math.

It’s not enough, even if I won three times as much, it wouldn’t be enough. It is impossible and I have known it for too long, but I have never allowed myself to fall into despair, because if I give up now… If I throw in the towel all my effort will have been in vain.

Kuno won’t allow it, he won’t let me take another forty years to repay the debt, I know that too.

I just want to step onto the wooden floor of my dojo. I want to go back to that house where I was once happy—with my mother, father, and sisters. I need to go back.

Something falls from my face to the ground, I bring a trembling hand to my cheek and notice with astonishment that it is a tear.

Can I still cry? I thought I had lost that ability a long time ago. I haven’t shed a tear since the day we were kicked out of our house, eight years ago now.

I leave the restaurant and close the door, by the time I turn the key I can no longer see anything.
It’s like my anger—like a river, only worse. It’s an overflowing floodgate, an emotion that grows and spills over. I can feel all the tears I’ve been holding back for years surge from my eyes, spilling onto the cold asphalt floor.

How pathetic. I put my keys in my pocket and drag my coat sleeve over my face trying to stop it, but it’s impossible, now that it’s finally started I can’t stop it.

I hunch over the door, trying to let it pass as soon as possible, to let the night silence engulf my sadness, to take it all away and leave me calm, dry and alone.

“I’m fed up,” I moan, gritting my teeth, feeling like I’m walking close to the abyss. I don’t want to fall, I can’t break. I need to go home.

I collapse to the ground, rubbing my eyes hard, trying to chase away the stubborn tears. But they keep coming, as my breath quickens from the pathetic whimpering. That’s when I sense a shadow looming.

I don’t know why I didn’t notice it earlier—it’s massive. The darkness obscures his features, but not his lithe, predatory gait. He crouches down beside me, his gaze full of genuine concern.

The street fighter scowls, his face hardening, raising a hand before stopping. I feel like prey—a wounded animal.

He grits his teeth and huffs.

“You’re going to be a problem,” he grunts, frustrated.

.

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AUTHOR’S NOTE.

When I first saw Isabel’s fanarts I was very moved. They were refreshing, vivid and full of expression. A story had been born in her head, and she transformed it into images in a prodigious way. This is something that I have always admired very much, the artist’s ability to draw the images he imagines. I lack the ability to draw, and my skills as a writer are limited to fanfiction, which is why when the opportunity arose to bring those images to a fic I was filled with doubts. I felt responsible for someone else’s ideas, and that was a new concept, but at the same time it represented a challenge.

I gave it a lot of thought, asked my betas (SakuraSaotome and Lucita-chan) for advice and jotted down ideas until I was finally able to present Isabel with the concept and the story lines that structure this story. I don’t know if I’m proud of this work, certainly not yet, because I feel that I have spoiled Isabel’s beautiful and fresh drawings, endowing them with a load of drama and suffering that sustains a plot with sharp angles, although not without humor and romance.

I hope you will join us on this adventure, I can’t wait to see where it takes us.

Lum

ILLUSTRATOR’S NOTE.

Can you imagine how excited I was when my favorite RanAkane writer offered to write this fanfic? WOW! She created a whole universe from three short lines I had and a few meaningless sketches. And so here we are, with a fun project between the two of us, writing and drawing, creating a fanfiction/fanart out of pure love for Ranma.

And many thanks to my bestie for the title of the story, without her it would be called something like “The fight of love” or something cheesy like that because I have zero creativity for that hahaha. Bestie, you are the most creative, thank you.

I hope the illustrations express what Lum writes, and I also hope to improve as the chapters progress.

Enjoy this story, we have put a lot of love into it.

Isa