Elegance, Party and Gunfire

  Fujikawa Corp. Tower, Tokyo, Japan

  25th Floor, Event Hall "The Garden"

  7:00 p.m.

  The day of the party had finally arrived. The wealthy gathered, trying to impress their business partners. Everything in this place and in this moment was a demonstration of power and money—a way of showing who stood above whom. It was an extravagant contradiction: the sweet fragrance of imported tropical orchids clashed with the dry, clean aroma of high-end sake. It was the scent of money trying to buy authenticity—and failing.

  People celebrated a wedding of convenience more than a wedding of feelings. They talked and praised the success of a tropical country nicknamed an Eden on Earth. Yet, they were unable to point it out on a map or care about what was happening inside it. They were fascinated by a place they would never know, yet they were happy with the exotic, exclusive aura of success that merely mentioning it gave them. They consumed it like just another luxury good.

  From a corner next to one of the buffet tables, my Aunt Damaris and I were sweating blood, trying to set everything up at the last moment because Sharon had invited more people than planned. The whole thing felt like a surreal stage play. Men in suits that cost more than all the money I had ever invested in my workshop chatted with women dressed as if they were going to the Oscars. Everyone smiled stiffly, betraying how forced the event was.

  The "cultural fusion" that Sharon had demanded looked more like a cheap disguise. Some painted ox-cart wheels, done by my girls, were propped up beside immaculate ikebana arrangements. A trio of Japanese men tried to learn how to play marimbas with Viennese waltz music sheets that had been handed to them at the last moment. Their faces were filled with deep confusion as they struggled to follow along—yet another last-second idea that someone had thought was good. My poor aunt had to call the embassy in desperation to borrow the ones on display for the event.

  The photo section was overwhelmed; all the girls wanted those pictures framed like famous fashion shots, more than appreciating the actual work that had gone into creating the backdrops—or the palm trees flown in hastily by plane.

  Why was I so reluctantly in this place, wearing a particular dress and bearing such a peculiar body as mine? Because my aunt didn't know any Japanese, and there were still countless things to prepare and unforeseen problems to solve. I was doing my best as a translator, but this was too much for both me and my aunt. An eccentric man had already offered to buy one of the marimbas for his house. He had a check ready to go, but I explained that the marimbas came from an embassy and were only on loan. Another girl arrived, picked up one of the painted wooden wheels, and took it away without asking—she basically stole it in broad daylight. I think she somehow believed it was her entitlement just for existing. The Japanese side wasn't having much luck either. I could see the poor waiters trying to make the remaining bottles of sake last while an emergency order was placed with a nearby store.

  "The dish wrapped in a leaf? It’s an ancient tradition. It symbolizes the union of earth and fruit,” I lied, watching the businessman nod solemnly. He was completely convinced by the story I had just made up as a joke.

  I saw my Aunt Damaris across the hall.She looked like a ghost drifting through her own creation, tightening a bow here and smoothing a tablecloth there.Her smile was tense, like a thread about to snap.I knew what she was thinking: all her efforts—the whirlwind trip, the sleepless nights—paled in comparison to the obscene opulence of the Fujikawa Corporation.I felt anger rise in me for her.This wasn’t her dream; it was a nightmare assignment.The reason for all this madness strutted through the center of the room like a peacock in heat: Sharon. Sharon was using her heritage, which she despises, as currency to raise her value in the market of "independent and powerful women," all while flaunting her marriage of convenience.

  She wore a red dress, a color she had forbidden all guests and staff to wear, that screamed “center of attention” rather than “chaste bride.” She laughed too loudly, touched the arm of every important man, and looked down on the decorations as if they were her own charity project. Each time her shrill laughter pierced the party's murmurs, I had to clench my jaw to keep from tensing up.

  The only thing that comforted me in those moments was knowing I had my gun with me and the chance to shoot her easily; from time to time I could imagine simply taking the weapon and firing a couple of times to solve the problem. My slime hand slid into my chest and unconsciously searched for the gun, only to feel that it was still there inside my body — it was the only way I had managed to bring it here because the security guards in the lobby were searching everyone.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  My aunt’s voice pulled me out of my murderous fantasy. "Look what I managed to rescue for the hardest-working assistant at the party," she whispered, smiling conspiratorially as she slid a small, fine porcelain plate toward me, hidden among the table linens. On it were a couple of savory pastries—a bite stolen from excess, a quiet act of rebellion against the opulence surrounding us.

  "Eat a little now while you can. They're quite good. Not only the hosts should enjoy themselves at a party.”

  A wave of genuine affection washed over me. Amid all the pretense, my aunt’s gesture was the only authentic thing. I nodded, grateful, and slipped into a small corner behind an ornamental column, away from curious eyes. On one thing, at least, I agreed with the others: the food was undoubtedly worth whatever it must have cost.

  Once my stomach was satisfied, my physical needs outweighed my mental ones. I needed a moment of peace away from Sharon’s shrill voice and the guests' hollow murmurs.

  "Sorry, I need to use the bathroom."

  Wait for me a moment, and I’ll be right back.”

  "Don't let everything turn into chaos just because I'm gone for a moment," I said, squeezing her shoulder.

  I walked around the perimeter of the room, avoiding the center, where Sharon reigned. The ladies' restroom was a sanctuary of cold marble and dim lights. I locked myself in a stall, rested my forehead against the door, and sighed deeply. I wished the hours until this nightmare ended would hurry. I would accept anything for the party to stop, one way or another.

  *Boom!*

  *Bang!*

  *Bang!*

  *Bang!*

  The screams didn’t come first. It was the sound. It was a dull, rapid pop-pop-pop unlike any champagne cork. I felt it in my bones; it made my body tense before my brain could process it. A burst of breaking glass followed on the other side of the bathroom door, and then true panic set in. There were high, short screams full of pure terror that chilled the blood.

  I opened the stall door a crack. The luxurious bathroom was chaos. Women were pressed against the walls; some were crying and others were frozen with fear. The marimba trio’s music had abruptly stopped through the open bathroom door, replaced by a heavy, terrifying silence that was quickly filled with muffled screams and shouted orders in Japanese with a rough, unfamiliar accent.

  "Everyone get down! Hands where we can see them! Anyone who moves dies!”

  My heart pounded in my chest, but not from fear; rather, it was from a horrible, familiar certainty. No, not here. Not now.

  This is a real life-or-death battle; there's no room for act dumb.

  I pressed myself against the wall next to the door and peeked into the hall. The scene was surreal. Guests were kneeling or lying face down on the immaculate carpet, which was now stained with spilled sake and trampled canapés. Three men dressed like delivery workers but wearing balaclavas and carrying assault rifles walked through the rows of hostages with efficient, brutal movements. They were an effective team. Their objective was clear and systematic—they were looking for someone.

  I shoved my hands into my chest and desperately searched the holster where I kept my pistol and its three magazines on my slime body. Now that Avalon had been damaged, it could no longer be summoned or protect me like the magnificent sword always had. This time, I only had my wits and the pistol. With the holster secured at my waist, I looked back quickly to see what was happening in the main hall.

  One of the men, who seemed to be in command, grabbed an elderly executive by the hair and lifted his head. "Keisuke Fujikawa? Where is he?" he shouted in poor but comprehensible Japanese.

  The man, trembling, shook his head in despair. The terrorist contemptuously shoved him to the floor and moved on to the next person.

  My gaze scanned the room instinctively for two faces: my aunt’s and the boyfriend’s. I saw Damaris, pale as death, kneeling beside one of her decorative tables with her hands at the nape of her neck. Relieved for a second, I searched for Fujikawa. He wasn't among those being checked. He must have hidden, I thought. Or they’d already found him.

  One of the terrorists moved dangerously close to where my aunt was standing. Without thinking, I backed further into the bathroom. I couldn't stay trapped in here. I had to move. I had to figure out what was happening and how to get out of here.

  I couldn't just run out and start shooting; I didn't know how many armed men there were or what their objectives were. Starting a shootout right now would only cause deaths and achieve nothing — for now, I had to escape.

  The main door of the event hall was sealed. The only way out was through the service door to the kitchen on the far side of the room. A sea of hostages and armed men separated me from it.

  The sound of firm, quick footsteps approaching the bathroom made me hold my breath. A hoarse voice shouted from outside, directed at the women hiding with me.

  "Everyone out! Now! To the hall!"

  It was the moment to decide. Stay and become just another hostage, or move?

  Without making a sound, while the other women walked out crying with their hands up, I slipped under the bathroom dividers toward the other door, the one that led to a small staff changing room. From there, a service corridor. It was my only chance.

  The heavy bathroom door closed behind me, drowning out the sobs and the orders. For a moment, there was only silence and the faint glow of the emergency lights in the corridor. I was out, but still at the wolf’s mouth. The assault had begun, once again. Today would not be a good day for anyone—I would make sure of that.