1: Sawada Style Class Begin!
The neon lights of Shinjuku’s Kabukicho district bled into puddles on the cracked pavement. It reeked of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne.
A towering sign reading:
“Sawada Style: Neo-Samurai Dojo Ancient Secrets for the Modern Warrior”
It glared down from a second-story window, the sharp calligraphy partially obscured by grime and flickering LEDs.
Inside, Sawada Kenji stood in front of his class, katana resting lightly in one hand, the blade gleaming under fluorescent lights.
“Alright, everyone, eyes on me!”
Kenji’s voice carried a sharp edge, confidence dripping from every syllable.
He was wearing a loose black gi, sleeves artfully rolled up to reveal toned forearms and a garish silver watch that caught the light with every gesture. His hair, a perfectly maintained mess of dyed brown strands, framed a face that was almost handsome, if not for the permanent smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth.
Fourteen students, mostly twenty-something influencers, foreign exchange students, and a few bored salarymen, stared at him with awe.
Among them was Mika Tsukamoto, a wide-eyed nineteen-year-old wearing a brand-new gi she probably spent her part-time job savings on.
She hung on Kenji’s every word like it was gospel.
“This...” Kenji raised the katana high above his head with a dramatic flair “...is Kuzuryu no Kata, the Nine-Headed Dragon Form. Passed down through my family for generations. My father, Sawada Masashi, perfected it. Me? I made it better.”
The room remained silent.
In reality, 'Kuzuryu no Kata'... was something Kenji had slapped together after watching an old samurai flick while half-drunk on shochu.
But none of them knew that.
And if they did, he’d convince them otherwise.
Confidence was a weapon sharper than any blade.
“Now watch closely.”
Kenji lunged forward in a sweeping, almost dance-like motion.
His grip was loose, his footwork sloppy if one cared enough to look.
But to his audience; an audience that had likely never seen a real iaido demonstration, it was mesmerizing.
The blade sliced through the air, stopping inches from a wooden training dummy. He held his pose, chest heaving heavily, sweat shining on his forehead.
The silence prolonged before he nonchalantly flipped the katana around, resting it against his shoulder.
“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why you paid your very reasonable tuition fees.”
A few students clapped hesitantly.
Mika clapped harder than anyone.
“Alright, alright,” Kenji said, raising a hand. “Enough worshipping me, you’re embarrassing yourselves. Pair up and let’s work on your stances. Mika, you’re with me.”
The students began shuffling into pairs, but Mika practically skipped over to Kenji, clutching her practice bokken like it was a holy artifact.
Fifteen minutes later, Kenji was half-heartedly correcting Mika’s foot positioning, his hand lingering just a little too long on her waist.
“Relax your hips, Mika-chan,” he said, leaning close enough that she could smell the faint whiskey on his breath from the night before. “This isn’t just about strength, it’s about…flow.”
Mika blushed and nodded, adjusting her stance obediently.
Kenji’s eyes flicked up, scanning the rest of the dojo.
His other students were swinging bokken with varying degrees of incompetence, most of them copying his earlier performance without knowing a single thing about why they were doing it.
Easy money...
Kenji excused himself, stepping off to the side where his phone buzzed on a folding chair.
[Incoming Call: Rina-chan 💋]
He let it ring twice before answering...
Just enough time to seem busy.
“Hey, babe,” he said smoothly, turning away from the class. “Tonight? Nah, the dojo’s packed, you know how it is. Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you after midnight. Don’t fall asleep on me.”
He hung up, smirking at his reflection in the dojo’s glass window.
He was a predator in his own little world, and everyone else was prey...
Wide-eyed, impressionable, and willing to hand over their wallets and attention in exchange for something 'authentic.'
After class, Kenji leaned against the dojo’s balcony railing, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
Below, the chaos of Shinjuku carried on drunks stumbling out of hostess clubs, host boys with bleached hair catcalling tourists, and somewhere in the distance, a police siren wailing into the night.
Mika approached hesitantly, clutching her gym bag.
“Sensei…?”
Kenji exhaled smoke, looking her up and down. “What’s up, Mika-chan? Did you want to ask about...private lessons? I have…openings~.”
She hesitated, her small hands gripping the strap of her bag tightly. “I-I just…wanted to thank you. I feel so much stronger since joining your dojo. I really…believe in this.”
Kenji gave her a lopsided smile, stepping closer. “Mika-chan, Belief is the first step to strength.”
She smiled brightly, and for a moment, Kenji almost felt…something.
Maybe guilt.
Maybe nothing.
“Get home safe,” he said, turning away before she could say anything else.
Kenji arrived at Club Amethyst two hours later.
The hostess bar was a haze of blue lights and overpriced champagne, the air perfumed with floral-scented body spray and desperation.
Kenji was a regular here, and the mama-san waved him in with an indulgent smile.
He slid into a velvet booth where Rina, a twenty-two-year-old hostess with doe eyes and perfectly curled brown hair, greeted him with a sultry smile.
“Kenny-sensei,” she purred. “You look tired tonight. Long day teaching?”
Kenji grinned, draping an arm over her shoulder. “Hard work, babe. You wouldn’t understand.”
Rina giggled, pouring him a glass of overpriced whiskey.
Around him, other patrons, middle-aged businessmen in crumpled suits, sat stiffly next to younger women pretending to care about their stories.
Kenji, however, was in his element.
He spun tales about his father’s legendary status, the deadly secrets of the Sawada Style, and his noble burden of passing down these ancient techniques.
It was all bullshit.
But who cared?
By the time Kenji stumbled back to his cramped studio apartment at 3 AM, his wallet was significantly lighter, and his stomach was heavy with whiskey and cheap beef bowls.
He kicked off his shoes, leaving them in the middle of the entrance, and collapsed onto his futon without bothering to undress.
The room smelled faintly awful; just sweat and cigarette smoke.
On the wall opposite his bed hung a framed photo of his father stern-faced in a crisp hakama, holding a katana at his side.
Kenji stared at it for a long moment, the smirk slipping from his face.
“You were full of shit too, old man...” he muttered before turning over, pulling a blanket roughly over himself.
Outside, the distant hum of the city buzzed through thin walls. Kenji closed his eyes, but sleep didn’t come easy.
Somewhere deep inside, under layers of whiskey, bravado, and empty charisma... a knot of something sharp twisted in his chest.
Guilt?
Shame?
He didn’t want to know. He didn't care.
Tomorrow, another class.
Another performance.
Another chance to pretend.
