SAI SHINU
A man stepped in front of me and grabbed the boy by the shoulder. "You shouldn't be out here, kid," he said.
He was about my height, maybe forty years old. I asked, "What is this kid to you?"
He gave me a strange look. "Like everyone else in this village—he is my slave."
I bit my tongue to stop the rage from showing. I could have killed him in a heartbeat without hesitation.
How was this possible? The street was full of smiling people—cheerful faces, voices, market stalls—but the smile on the man's face was a mask. For a single second I understood: I'd seen this before. This place was a mirror of the life I'd once had. On the surface, everyone looked happy; underneath, they were pathetic, manufactured illusions.
One day you wake up and realize every memory you have is false. If the world is fake, maybe you're only an illusion too—dragged along by others, forced to accept a lie. But I wouldn't let that happen. I wasn't going to be someone else's puppet. I would crack the mirage. I would be the first to shatter it to the ground.
If I was an illusion, then I would keep killing until the last illusion left standing was me.
I grabbed the man's hand. "Let the kid go," I said, voice low and hard.
He didn't answer. Instead he swung at my face. I caught the blow with my other hand. For a moment I saw only raw terror in his eyes—he was shaking, overwhelmed. He fell to the dirt as if his legs had given out beneath him.
"Go," I said. "This is your chance. I could have killed you in a heartbeat. Get out of my sight."
He scrambled to his feet and ran. The boy clung to my shirt, hands trembling. He had been through hell with that man.
I crouched and looked into the boy's dark eyes. There was something different about them now—sharper, more alive.
"Hey," I asked gently. "Do you want to go eat something together?"
He managed a small, stunned smile. "Yes, sir. Thank you."
My smile widened. "Don't be afraid. I'm not like that man." I ran a hand through his hair.
We went into a small tavern and sat at a corner table. The food smelled good. While we waited, I started the conversation.
"How did you end up with that man?" I asked. He flinched at the question, but answered.
"He and a woman adopted me when I was four," he said quietly. A tear rolled down his cheek; I wiped it away. "At first they treated me like a treasure. Then one day the man killed his wife—my mother."
"He wasn't my son anymore after that," the boy continued. "He made me his slave. He yelled and beat me almost every day."
My jaw clenched. I forced my hatred down. I didn't want the kid to see it, but I'm sure he felt it in me.
"But then you came," he said, smiling in a ridiculous, hopeful way as he looked at me.
The waiter came then and set our plates on the table. We both looked up, and without missing a beat, we said at the same time, "Enjoy your meal."