I stared at Kimiko on the couch beside me, her arm still looped through mine like a warm vise. Her smile reminded me of certain Yakuza elders I'd known—seemingly kind on the surface, but with eyes that caught every micro-expression.
I needed to be extraordinarily careful here. This woman had raised Satori from birth, wiped his tears, bandaged his scraped knees, and watched him grow from baby to teenager. If anyone could spot the impostor behind his eyes, it would be her—the one person whose love might be powerful enough to see through my performance.
"So," she said, her voice gentle but inescapable, like a silken noose gradually tightening. "When did all this start? The last time we video called, you were..." She waved her hand vaguely, clearly searching for a diplomatic way to say 'a disgusting slob who could barely drag himself off the couch, who reeked of stale chips and wasted potential.'
