Page 103 of The Dragon 2
He groaned.
“Whatever.” I grabbed my purse off the table, shoved my phone inside, and slipped on my old, paint-splattered sneakers by the door. A wicked laugh bubbled out of me. “Come on.”
He followed after me, slipping on his shoes by the door. “The sacrifices I make for our friendship.”
“Yeah, yeah. Cry me a river.”
We stepped into the hallway, and it smelled like expensive incense—amberwood and smoke drifting from somewhere unseen. Morning light filtered through the frosted glass at the end, painting the floor in soft gold and pale pink.
Even far off and around the corner, the elevator chimed like a majestic temple bell.
I sighed. “This building is too pretty for my sneakers.”
On my side, Zo spun like a runway model. “It’s Tokyo, darling. Ugly shoes are your sin to bear.”
I snorted.
Next, Zo immediately launched into a story like he’d been waiting all morning to drop it. “So last night, I was at that rooftop party I told you about—the one with the crystal sushi and the man playing harp with his teeth—”
I squinted. “Excuse me, what?”
“Not the point. Anyway, I’m sipping this lavender lychee cocktail when he walks up.”
“Who?”
He clutched his chest like he’d just been shot in a telenovela. “Takeshi fucking Mori.”
My jaw dropped. “Your archnemesis. The fashion editor you hate?”
“Yes! The same one who shredded Yuta’s fall collection in that viral column. The same one I collaborated with. And then—he wears the centerpiece jacket on his next cover shoot like a damn hypocrite.”
“I told you he was a hating-ass troll.”
“You never lie. Anytime I’m involved in something, he goes out of his way to shit on it in that damned magazine.”
“Listen, trolls stay pressed because deep down, they’re fans who hate that they’re fans. That man doesn’t despise you—he just wants tobeyou. That column? That was just a tantrum. With excessive punctuation.”
Zo snapped his fingers. “See! Now that makes sense with what happened last night.”
“Oh shit, Zo. What happened?”
He leaned in, eyes gleaming behind his gold frames. “Takeshi slid up next to me and said. ‘I find your aesthetic... unapologetic.’”
“Unapologetic?”
“I hope you gave him the side-eye.”
“Nyomi, whenyoudo side-eye, it’s a full exorcism. WhenIdo it, people think I’m constipated.”
I chuckled. “Maybe it’s a DNA thing. White guys just can’t side-eye.”
“Here we go with your borderline racist theories.”
“I’m just saying! What if side-eye is generational? Something passed down like cheekbones and trauma. You can’t justlearnit. You got tosurviveit.”
“This is like your theory that white people can’t season food.”
“I didn’t sayallwhite people can’t season food. It’s mainly all you English folk.”
