Tokio's nightclub was packed that night. Karen moved back and forth from the kitchen nonstop, balancing trays full of drinks. Her feet screamed in pain, and she paused briefly in the hallway.
She slapped her hands against her calves, rolling her ankles inside the high heels she was forced to wear.
Her hair was tied in a high ponytail—Tokio's order, for "staff neatness." So far, no one had dared to harass her.
Until the man in a beach shirt stepped into her path. Karen was carrying champagne for a guest when he blocked her.
"We meet again, sweetheart," he said, licking his lips.
Karen's face was flat. "I can't stop you from coming here."
"Exactly." He came closer, one hand shamelessly grabbing her backside as he pressed his hips forward.
Karen blinked slowly. "Let go of me."
"Or what? You'll kick me like last time?" His tone was taunting.
"No. Jehd will deal with you," she corrected him.
"Oh, come on, sweetheart. Then let me kiss you."
Karen moved fast—grabbing a glass of champagne and throwing it into his face before slipping away from his grip.
Gasps rang out. Music stopped. People stepped back, forming a circle.
Karen exhaled and turned to leave when the man cursed after her.
"Bitch!"
He yanked her hair, making her wince. Her eyes shut tight against the pain.
"Get back here, you slut! You think you're worth anything?!"
Karen caught sight of Jehd moving toward her. She seized the man's wrist, twisted his arm, and forced him to face her.
"Let go," she said quietly.
"Sure! After I beat the hell out of you!"
He was humiliated—rejected twice in public, maybe furious that Karen had humiliated him before.
Karen dug her nails into his hand until his grip on her hair broke. Before he could react, she balled her fist tight, focused all her strength, and slammed it into his nose.
"Ahh! AHHH!" he screamed, clutching his face as blood streamed down, collapsing to the floor.
Jehd arrived, eyeing Karen's reddened fist. "You alright?"
"I'm fine." Her gaze stayed cold on the man writhing on the floor, blood dripping from his broken nose.
Karen's hand throbbed painfully. She might have broken his nose, maybe even fractured the bone. Because honestly, Karen wasn't the type of girl who had ever trained in martial arts.
She had only read about it in a magazine while waiting for the bus, then tried it out herself.
Jehd dragged the man out while Tokio came rushing toward her in a panic. Surely one of the waiters had reported to her.
She grabbed Karen's red hand, lifted it, and held it, but Karen quickly pushed her away.
"I'm fine."
"What happened?" Tokio asked, hands on her hips as she looked around.
"He harassed me, so I broke his nose."
Tokio opened her mouth, looked like she was about to speak, then closed it again. "To my office now. I want every detail." She glanced at the DJ and shouted, "What are you waiting for? Play the music again!"
The music started up again, louder, and the crowd who had just witnessed the scene slowly forgot and returned to dancing.
Tokio opened her office door, crossed the room, and sat on the sofa. She stared at Karen, now standing in front of her with Karen emotionless face. "Tell me."
Karen recounted how the man in the beach shirt had harassed her yesterday, how she handled it, and how he came back tonight thinking he could own her.
"I just gave him a lesson."
Tokio nodded slowly. "Alright. I'll hire more security. Jehd can't handle this alone."
Karen gave no response, only blinked. "Anything else? I need to get back to work."
Tokio squinted at Karen's swollen fingers, her expression hardening. She shook her head firmly.
"For now, go home."
"Am I fired?"
"No. Your hand needs treatment."
"I'm fine."
"You won't be able to carry trays properly. Come back tomorrow."
Karen refused, still standing her ground. "If I don't work, I won't get paid."
Tokio looked at her, baffled. "That's your hand, Karen."
"Exactly. But medicine costs money."
"Do you love money?" Tokio sneered.
"Is there anything in this world that doesn't require money?"
Karen didn't care whether Tokio thought she was materialistic or money-hungry. She stared at Tokio as she shook her head in disbelief, as if shocked those words came from Karen mouth.
Tokio stood, moved closer, and crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. "Treat your injury, Karen. I'll cover the cost."
"Why? Because I got hurt in your place?"
"Exactly. Now change your clothes and leave. Send me the bill."
"I don't want to owe you," Karen said.
"This isn't debt. It's insurance. Change, Karen."
***
Her hand bone was fractured—that's what the doctor said after the examination. Karen was forbidden from moving her right hand for two weeks, and it would take a full month before she could move her fingers again.
Karen stared at her hand, thickly wrapped in white bandage. Her mind raced. If she couldn't use her hand for a month, how could she carry trays?
She looked out at the bustling streets of Tokyo, always lively even at night. Unlike Fukuoka, here, the city never seemed to sleep.
As she passed an alley, she heard the moans of a man and a woman. Karen stopped and glanced at the couple having sex in public.
It was normal here. So were the yakuza. Karen had been told that several yakuza groups still held significant power in the underworld. But she didn't care. It wasn't her problem.
She kept walking, letting the couple finish, before turning a corner, crossing about five blocks, and knocking on a steel door in the wall.
She waited five minutes before the door cracked open, still chained. A man peeked out.
An old man with a potbelly looked at her, then shut the door again. Karen heard the slot and chain unlocking.
The door opened, and she was greeted by the sharp stench of cigarettes. At least five men were inside, standing in corners, while three others slumped on a worn-out couch.
The old man led her in, opened his fridge, pulled out fresh cabbage, peeled off the leaves, and handed her a small blue book.
Karen took it, eyes landing on the gold-embossed cover. She flipped straight to the last page. Her fake passport was ready.
She unzipped her bag slightly, handed him some tips she had earned yesterday. "I'll come back tomorrow for the rest of the payment."
The old man opened the white envelope, licked his thumb, counted the cash, then nodded with satisfaction. He glanced at Karen. "Why do you need a passport? You don't even have money, do you?"
"I do. And that's none of your business."
Karen slipped the passport into her bag and walked away. This place was called Debets Hall. There was a reason the locals called it that.
The old man, Nieto, sold anything anyone needed—illegal weapons, passports, even information. He was the one who had made her fake ID. The men inside were his guards.
Some clients weren't as polite as Karen. Some tried to silence Nieto to protect themselves. But Debets Hall was the right place for someone like Karen.
She walked to the bus stop, waiting patiently as she watched the cityscape. Tall buildings stretched skyward, people rushed past. At moments like this, she remembered her orphanage head's words...
"No one in this world wants you. You should never have been born."
Funny how someone expected to have a soft heart treated her like trash.
When the bus finally came, Karen saw how crowded it was and chose to wait again. She didn't know what time it was or how long she'd been waiting—she didn't even have a watch.
Considering the distance between the stop and the orphanage, she decided to walk instead. There was no point in waiting. She might as well head to another stop.
Her reason for rejecting Tokio's touch—and the orphanage head's—was clear. She hated adults. They used children and beat them. Karen had seen it: a mother spanking her son harshly as the boy cried.
The woman seemed possessed, hitting harder and harder while the child's wails grew louder. No one helped, though they saw. To them, it wasn't their business. They didn't want to get involved. Same thing for Karen.
What would happen if she saved that child? Would the boy thank her? Would the mother stop? Maybe she could save him today, but not tomorrow. Thinking that way, she chose not to interfere.
Better to worry about tomorrow—how she'd carry trays with her left hand without dropping drinks or food. Her steps stopped again, for another reason.
She looked at a music shop beside her. Once, long ago, Karen loved to sing. She remembered her voice was quite good. But the orphanage head forbade her to sing. Said her voice was horrifying, like a death song.
From then, Karen never sang again. She didn't even try. None of the other kids in the orphanage knew she could sing.
She could have auditioned and debuted as an idol if she wanted.
But no. Karen didn't do it. What she wanted wasn't fame or adoration. She wanted power. The strength to free herself from her cursed fate.