Page 49 of Kotori
I don't look at the bamboo piece. I don't stare defiantly at any of the hidden lenses. I simply undress with my back to where I know the primary camera is positioned, a small, meaningless gesture of resistance that changes nothing.
In the mirror across the room, I see myself in his chosen dress, looking like someone I don't recognize. Someone who belongs in this world of hierarchy and beautiful submission. Someonewho knows the truth about the powerful man who rules this household and is still here anyway.
Just existing under this constant surveillance is its own kind of exhaustion. Standing here in his chosen dress, in the room where he replaced my clothes with his selections, always aware that nothing is private. No reaction, no moment of weakness, no fleeting expression goes unrecorded.
I step back, wrapping my arms around myself. In the mirror, I catch sight of my reflection and look away quickly. I don't want to see what I'm becoming.
Someone who poured his tea without being asked and felt proud when he approved.
Someone who's starting to want the cage as much as she fears it.
Kotori.Little bird.
The pet name follows me as I go through the motions of my nightly routine, ignoring the cameras I know are recording every moment. I brush my teeth without looking too long at the mirror. I change into the silk nightgown he provided with mechanical efficiency. I slide between expensive sheets and turn my face toward the wall, away from the most obvious cameras.
But even with my back turned, I feel them. The constant awareness of being watched has become background noise, a low-level anxiety that never quite fades. Another thing I'm learning to live with in this place.
The beautiful trap is closing around me one thread at a time, and the most terrifying part is how safe it's starting to feel inside. Even when I know he's watching. Even when I know exactly what he is.
13
Paige
"Thisway,Williams-san."Hayashi'svoice is neutral as she leads me through corridors I haven't seen before, deeper into the private wing of the compound. "Matsumoto-sama has arranged for attire consultation."
The sound of the girls' quiet studying fades behind us. I've just finished helping them with their English homework and setting them up with their independent reading—their daily quiet study time that gives me my only scheduled break. A break that Kaito has decided to fill.
My stomach clenches. After last night's dinner, after his casual mention of my "new wardrobe," I knew this was coming. But knowing doesn't make it easier to accept that my clothing choices are no longer mine to make.
We stop before sliding doors painted with elegant cranes in flight. When Hayashi opens them, I see a room that looks like something from a high-end boutique—decorative screens, andan elderly Japanese man kneeling beside bolts of expensive fabric.
"Williams-san," the man says with a deep bow. "I am Yamamoto, master tailor. It is my honor to serve Matsumoto-sama's household."
Master tailor. Of course. Not just any seamstress, but someone whose family probably dressed samurai lords for generations. Everything in this world comes with weight.
"Please," he gestures toward a silk screen. "We must begin with measurements."
Behind the screen, I strip down to just the plain cotton underwear they provided—no bra, since formal Japanese dress requires different undergarments. The process is thorough, professional, and impersonal. Yamamoto-san takes measurements with practiced efficiency, noting numbers in a leather-bound book while discussing fabric weights and cuts as if I'm not present.
"For formal occasions, silk in vibrant colors," he murmurs, more to himself than to me. "Bright patterns for an unmarried woman. Pinks, reds, purples—colors that signify youth and availability. Conservative lines, modest necklines, appropriate for family functions. For daily wear, quality cotton in soft pastels. Nothing that draws improper attention."
Nothing that draws improper attention. Code for nothing that suggests I have preferences, desires, or an identity beyond what Kaito wants me to project.
When the measuring is complete, Yamamoto-san brings out what he explains is a sample kimono—layers of silk in crimson and gold that shimmer under the room's lighting. Nothing like the simple cotton yukata I wore in the gardens that first week. This is art woven into fabric with patterns of cherry blossoms and flowing water that mark it as appropriate for a young unmarried woman.
"This is merely for initial fitting," Yamamoto-san explains. "The actual pieces will be custom-made to your exact measurements. Matsumoto-sama insists on perfection for his household."
"We will ensure proper fit for formal occasions," he says, beginning the complex process of dressing.
First comes the thin cotton under-kimono, then the silk juban, then the main kimono itself. Each layer requires careful adjustment, specific folding techniques that Yamamoto-san performs with practiced artistry. By the time we reach the obi—the wide silk sash that goes around my waist—I can barely move. The sample size is slightly too small across the shoulders and a bit too short in the sleeves, but Yamamoto-san assures me the final pieces will be perfect.
"This attire teaches proper behavior," he explains as he winds the obi around my waist multiple times, pulling it tight enough that breathing becomes deliberate. "Cannot move carelessly. Cannot act without thought. Every gesture must be considered, graceful, appropriate."
The obi requires both his hands and mine to position correctly, the elaborate bow at my back taking nearly ten minutes to create. When he's finally satisfied with the fit, I feel like a statue—elegant, perfect, and completely unable to function independently.
"Excellent," he says, stepping back to admire his work. "Matsumoto-sama will be pleased with the proportions. Now we must test movement—"
The sliding door opens with a whisper of sound.
