Page 3 of The Oni's Heart

Memories of my mother’s grimy motel rooms and the men whose stench lingered in the fabric of everything around us flickered in my mind as I wandered the streets, a ghost in this place—just another apparition in the slums.

It was the bright yellow and red against the drab grayness that yanked me out of my thoughts. Then I saw him—a monk. His calm stance and the polite bow, all caught me off guard, twisting my face into a scowl.

You didn’t see many monks where I came from in the hood, but you heard about them. And here was one, right in front of me, in the flesh.

I stood there for a moment, awkward, studying him. There was something in his eyes—something familiar—but I couldn’t place it.

He gave a small, serene smile before another bow, walking past me. I didn’t bother responding, just turned back to my own path, the weight of my own returning thoughts pulling me back down—the bitter aftertaste of something I couldn’t shake.

3

No Escape

MOMOI

Iwasn’t looking for answers. I wasn’t looking for anyone. I was looking for a place to breathe.

This city, with all its lights and sounds, felt like a cage I couldn’t escape, no matter how far I ran. I thought if I wandered long enough, maybe I’d stumble upon some kind of escape—a door hidden somewhere that would lead me out of the mess my life had become, a portal to another realm far beyond this one. But there wasn’t.

Every day was reminiscent of a countdown. A countdown to what? I couldn’t tell you. Maybe a breakdown. Maybe something worse. I didn’t know.

I wandered deeper into the city, the streets thinning as I moved away from the hustle. That’s when I found it—an unassuming izakaya tucked away in a quiet corner. A narrow door, framed by the warm glow of paper lanterns, beckoned. The soft murmur of voices drifted out with the steam rising from the kitchen.

The moment I stepped inside, the smell of grilled fish, soy sauce, and sizzling tempura wrapped around me. The air wasthick with a sense of comfort as if the whole place was made to forget the world outside. The walls were lined with faded wooden panels, the low murmur of patrons blending with the clink of ceramic cups. It was simple, humble, and familiar in a way that felt almost like home—except it wasn’t.

I slid onto a stool at the bar, giving a small nod to the bartender, an older man whose wrinkles seemed carved by years of serving the same tired faces. He didn’t ask what I wanted, just placed a small wooden cup in front of me. A shot of shochu, smooth and biting all at once. The kind of drink that didn’t need words.

I took a sip, letting the warmth spread through me, feeling the tension slip away, just a little. The flicker of lantern light caught the edges of the room, casting long shadows across the faces of the other customers. A pair of salarymen laughed too loudly at a joke, and a group of older women sat at the back, chatting softly over shared plates of sashimi. No one paid me any attention, and that was exactly what I needed.

The sounds of the place—the soft hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the rhythmic tapping of chopsticks on plates—began to blend into the background. I leaned back, staring into my glass, watching the light dance in the clear liquid. It was familiar in the way that everything else in this city felt foreign. But for a moment, I didn’t care. Here, I could just be another anonymous face in the crowd, no past, no future. Just here. Just now.

The bartender nodded at me, sensing my thoughts, and refilled my cup without a word. The warmth in my chest spread further, quieting the storm inside, even for a little while.

I took another sip, the burn of the shochu cutting through the haze in my head. The warmth helped, but it was only temporary. The frustration was still there, lurking underneath—a constant hum that never quite stopped.

I stared at the small glass in my hand, feeling the weight of it, the weight of my thoughts. I couldn’t afford to keep drowning in this haze, wasting time in places such as this.

I had skills—skills I’d spent years sharpening in the underworld of my previous life. But what good were they? I could read people, move through a crowd unnoticed, and make quick decisions when the stakes were high. I knew how to handle myself in tight situations, in places most people wouldn’t dare step into. I was good at the underground—dealing with things in the shadows. That’s where I thrived. But it wasn’t the kind of life you built a future on. It wasn’t normal. And it sure as hell wasn’t sustainable.

I tried to picture myself in some office, sitting behind a desk, typing away at spreadsheets or answering calls. The idea was laughable. I was the type to take risks, to work the edges where most wouldn’t dare. I didn’t belong in a modest dress, in the kind of world where you punched in at nine and punched out at five.

I downed the last of my drink, feeling the familiar burn in my throat, but it didn’t clear the fog in my mind. I wasn’t stupid. I knew I needed to start somewhere. But where? Could I just walk into a normal job and pretend I didn’t know how to hustle, how to survive? Even I couldn’t elaborate on my non-existent resume that well, and I knew it.

The thought made me restless, made the tightness in my chest worse.

I set the empty cup back on the bar with a soft clink, the noise somehow sounding final, as if it was marking the end of something.

"Another?" the bartender asked, his voice low but expectant. I could feel his eyes on me, sizing me up. Was he judging me? The thought gnawed at me. A twenty-three-year-old woman,alone, drinking by herself—my thoughts were probably written all over my face.

Screw it. It didn’t matter what he thought. It didn’t matter what any of them thought.

I shook my head. “No. I’m done.”

I slid off the stool, my legs stiff from sitting too long. The familiar weight of uncertainty pressed against me, but I didn’t know where to go from here. No destination. No plan. Just the pull to move, to escape, to keep walking.

Exiting, the cold night air hit me like a slap. It didn’t feel any better out here than it had in the pub, but it was something. I stepped into the streets, blending back into the shadows, the flickering neon lights painting the path ahead.

Maybe I’d find something. Maybe not. But right now, I just needed to keep moving. I wasn’t used to silence, but that’s what I found in Japan. Silence in a world that was waiting for me to make my move, but no one was going to tell me what that move was. The noise I’d come from—the streets of California, the endless echo of sirens, the violence—I didn’t hear it here. I didn’t hear anything. It was worse than I thought.

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