No, y'all— I'm not dead! I apologize for the inactivity, it's just I've gone back to college for another year and it has been kicking my ass 🫩 and compound that with work, it's been difficult to find time to write. I'm trying to find a schedule that works for me so that way I can deliver on updates. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter and hopefully I won't have to make you endure through another long inactivity period. Though, I may be jinxing it.

🐦

Miwa

The last time Miwa felt this nervous, her lower E string broke right before she and her band were set to perform for a rave.

She thought the performance was ruined. How else could she have put it? She didn't have the expertise to replace her broken string in as little as five minutes. She felt like biting her nails off watching that YouTube tutorial walk her through how to position the wire cutter and feed the string through the tuner. She managed to get it done a minute before she was due on stage, but her heart pounded wildly at the thought that one off key could've plummeted the band's career before it had even started.

So she practiced. Loosened her strings, cut them, removed them, inserted them into the bridge, repeat. Did it until she aced the five-minute mark. From that moment on, any last-minute fucked-up-string situations would be met with laidback knowing it could be fixed in two shakes of a drumbeat.

But fixing a guitar string was nothing like what she was preparing for now.

"I feel like I'm about to throw up," Miwa said, the mirror catching her just right. She fanned herself and took a sip from her cherry cola.

"It's just an interview," Bea assured. She brushed a shimmer of highlighter against Miwa's cheekbones. "Just answer the questions and be yourself lickety-split style."

"Easy for you to say. Everything I've worked for will go to shit if I can't win this thing."

"From what I've heard, this chick supports women creating their own businesses from nothing, is queer-friendly, and voted for President Travers twice. That fact in itself is a green flag."

Miwa breathed in and out, staring at her reflection. Bea was finishing adding some touch-ups to her makeup, making sure her eyeliner was sharp, lips glassy enough, and that any creased concealer areas were smoothed over and then set with a light dusting of setting powder. Picture-perfect for the headlines.

She smoothed back her sleek black hair and noticed her ring stand on the vanity— guitar-shaped, chipped, and scent retained of citrus. She wanted a reminiscent of her childhood in a place where she would soon call 'home'. Each of her silver rings caught the soft glow of her vanity light.

"Do you think I should wear all of them?" Miwa suddenly asked. "Try to look a little rock 'n' roll? Or will she think I'm trying too hard?"

Bea laughed, spraying a spritz of perfume around her collarbone. "How is trying to look fabulous 'trying too hard'?"

"I don't know. Maybe the rings will look too much? That I'm another wannabe aspiring-to-be business owner vying to impress her?"

"Y'know, the old you would've been kicking up your feet and snacking on a tray of Korean take-out while in your bathrobe."

"Naturally, she was a good time. But now I want to redefine life in the East Village. Of course, with you and everyone else by my side."

"Then I suggest you stop worrying and strut out there like the sexy diva boss you know the world will see you as. Like my mom used to say: stand tall, and fuck them."

Another deep breath in. Bea was right. Her ambition was already fulfilled, her image polished, and her voice was heard. The press was already eating up her club, which would open in a month from now. She'd made it in a way that was just as delicious as she expected it.

"Okay." Miwa slid on her rings, each finger deliberate.

Then the door opened and a woman's head poked inside. "Miss Hamato," she announced, "they're ready for you."

Bea clasped Miwa's shoulders and offered one last round of encouragement: "You're the bitch with the keys. Go get 'em!"

This time, Miwa smiled. She tugged at her cropped blazer and smoothed down her designer pants.

She exited the dressing room and strode to her spotlight sugar, each click-clack sound her heeled boots made her feel less on the edge of pukeland and more empowered, like she had stepped off a jet and everyone lined up waiting for her arrival, snapping photographs for the front cover and asking for her autograph. Hopefully this feeling would be conveyed when she promoted her club to all the higher power-ups in every big city.

The interview room looked like a cozy, curated studio— LED strip lights, potted plants in the corners, a mini table with a pitcher of water and two glasses on coasters in between velvet couches, and to further stress that she could not fuck this up, there was professional lighting and audio setup and a DSLR camera attached to a tripod. Ready for the media to take apart once that record button hit.

A woman in a coral pantsuit and resting a clipboard on her knee, who'd been waiting for her in one of the chairs, smiled up at her. "Thank you for joining us, Miss Hamato."

"Oh, just Miwa is fine," Miwa said with a practiced smile. She didn't forget to greet with a firm handshake.

The camera light turned red.

Remember what you talked about. Breathe, maintain, and project.

"So. . . Miwa, you've went from underground musician to club owner. How does it feel to have a venue of your own?"

"Beautiful. Sometimes surreal. It's not just about the live sets or the rooftop bar named after one of my unreleased songs. Or the personalized perks and service rewarded to VIP customers. It's about giving other musicians a platform to express themselves. Give them a chance like someone once gave me."

"You're a woman whose business does not focus in the beauty or wellness center. What advice can you give to other women trying to open their businesses and have hit roadblocks?"

"Voice is power. It's not really about what you say that will make a difference, but how. The way you sell your passion, your soul into your words, can impact the way someone sees you for who you are. You have to not only convince them that you know what you want, but also make them realize that they want what you want. If you know what keys to hit, you may find them playing the tune you want to hear.

Her interviewer took notes. "Let me just say that everyone is excited for the opening of Temple. Not just for the drinks and the hot men and women, but there is a mentorship program sector dedicated to coaching rising young singers in after-school music programs. What inspired that?"

"My mom," Miwa said automatically. "She encouraged me to pursue music, saw how it was my soul's second language."

"How did your family react when they learned of your success?"

"They were very supportive, actually. My dad was proud to know that him immigrating to the United States was worth something. My brothers on the hand. . . well, I think they're expecting half-priced Blue Mules because they're family."

"You are lucky to have a great support system. Friends, family. . . just as important as succeeding in the uncertainties of entrepreneurship."

Miwa's hand tightened around her ringed fingers. "Family? Sure, they're partly the reason why I didn't burnout. But friends? Eh. During tough times, it's easy to know who's standing with you and who's not."

"Would you mind elaborating?"

The lights seemed to dim slightly. Perhaps her imagination. She felt herself for a second before she forced out an answer. "I realized early that the people I thought were my friends, were really bringing me down. I've had to cut some ties and my circle may be smaller now, but it was the right thing to do. Didn't want to be that person that wasn't wearing a parachute when things crashed and burned."

The interviewer smiled politely, flipping her clipboard. The next page was blank. "So would you say it was a necessity or a choice to leave those unhealthy relationships in order to get where you are now?"

Miwa blinked. A shadow glimmered across her reflection in the camera lenses. For a second, she thought she saw Tobias, lean frame peeking from the wings, one brow arched, and smirk too knowing.

"Well, I personally don't see the difference," Miwa hesitated at first, then tried to steady her voice. "There comes a time where you have to start living up to your own potential. My friends were in the way of me achieving that, so I let them go. Simple, really."

"Of course. Either way, it must've been hard. Like once in a while, you think about the turn your life would've took had you still stayed with them."

The camera light flickered. The interviewer's smile remained stretched wide. Her clipboard was still blank. "Just imagine it," she said.

She turned away for a second— and then everything was gone.

The set.

The interviewer.

The velvet couch.

The warm lights flickered out.

The setting had changed. She found herself on the floor of a bathroom stall, the space itself resonated with the echoes of hollow metallic. Something like the stench of cleaner and stale water hung in the air. The edges of the tiles mottled with grime and rust bloomed around the edges. The toilet bowl, ancient and sturdy as ever, had a plastic seat that had yellowed and crackled over time.

Soreness clung to her thighs. Her rings had disappeared. Her reflection in the murky water revealed a different look: smudged lipstick, crummy mascara, disheveled hair. At her feet, were green and white pills scattered like confetti.

Tobias's deep voice creeped in: "This is your poison. And I'm your only cure."

The stall door rattled. A soft clunk that slowly turned into a ferocious bang.

Her throat tightened. Louder and louder. . . until she reached out her hand.

Miwa's vision blurred around the edges. Her weight grew heavier. Her breath quickened. Tobias's voice distorted, warbling like a tape unraveling. Then astatic—

A gasp.

The ceiling was the same dull beige as the powder-coated steel panels of the bathroom walls. The surface of her door was a canvas of forgotten history: faint, ghostly squares where stickers once were, and a scattering of scribbled graffiti— crude drawings, names, and dates— etched so deep that no matter how many times her mother tried to wash it off, the color would still seep into the wooden nooks and crannies.

Miwa looked over at her nightstand. She could still smell the old scent of citrus from her guitar-shaped ring stand. Those same rings were rusted now from the elements. If she placed them under the light, would they still shine like they used to?

***

Miwa's favorite bedtime story as a child was The Phantom Wars. It was a collection of tales passed down from generation to generation detailing the heroic actions of a mythical league of Hamato Clan warriors against many types of yokai— tackling cases of human possession by nogitsune, kappa drowning unsuspecting victims in the rivers of death, and yurei rising from shallow graves to take back what was once theirs. At the time it sounded captivating, encouraging her imagination to come up with wild visualizations of these legendary clansmen slaying demons from left to right, but now she saw that it really served to instill a sharp bias towards superstition. A way for her brain to draw a false casual relationship between two events, that one action caused the other.

She didn't believe in any of that stuff. As much as it would be cool for there to exist an underworld infested with demons to give Mikey an excuse to enact his latest manga obsession— Demon Slayer fantasy— dressing himself and the others as the five Hashiras equipped with some out-of-this-world breathing styles and haori jackets chic enough to put Northface out of business, it was never going to get past anything but LARPing.

Her father, however, was not so dismissive of the 'spirit world', as he called it. In fact, he'd worked so hard to achieve the sensitivity to paranormal activity he claimed their forefathers had perfected since the birth of their clan. Theoretically, it was a cool ability to have. At least she'd know if there was a Casper hanging out in their basement.

In reality, it'd be terrifying as hell. Imagine being the only person who could hear the faint whispers in the dark, see shadows moving across the walls, and feel a presence in the room that didn't belong there. Imagine feeling like you're losing part of your sanity because everyone dismissed your claims. So Miwa always tried her best not to open herself up to that world. Which meant not binge-watching paranormal movies with Raph every so often, given the guy was once bold enough to watch The Conjuring at midnight with the lights turned off and high volume.

She listened as her father weaved the familiar tale through his steady voice: "Long ago, it is said that the warriors of our clan didn't just fight men in armor, but shadows that have never walked the earth in human form. Westerners called these spirits unbound 'phantoms', but we call them yokai. These tales have been forgotten with time, but thanks to our family, they have been preserved for inheritance."

Okay, she tried to listen. Her father's voice sounded like a distant echo. She wasn't high by any chance, but Eden's micro dose fuzzed the edges of her thoughts. It somehow heightened the scent of sandalwood that drifted through the walls. Softened the warmth of the candlelight that bathed the dojo.

"My father said it was never meant to be a bedtime story, as well as his father before him. That it goes further than just swords and shadows. That one day, I will pass this all to you."

She nodded halfheartedly, feeling her stomach turn. She felt like she was given a prize she didn't deserve.

Her father then chuckled. "You and your brothers always wanted the same story every night. Do you remember the time I caught you trying to sneak off with the book?"

She returned a faint smile. "Raph dared Leo to do it, but he chickened out. I offered, and it would've gone well, had Leo actually understood the job of being the lookout."

"That is the second rule of being a ninja: you cannot sneak into the dojo to steal something and not expect your Sensei to notice. I would know from experience."

Her eyes flickered up. "That's a story I want to hear."

Her father only smiled, like it was for him to know and for her to find out. He rose and crossed to a panel in the wall. Once he pressed his hand on it, the panel seemed to split apart into pieces like a puzzle. From the hole, he pulled out a wooden box. Another lock within a lock. The real prize was a scroll sealed in red wax. Given the worn edges and the yellowed of the parchment, Miwa guessed that the scroll made the box its home way before electricity was discovered.

Her father held it with reverence. "Inside is knowledge every past leader of our clan has sworn to protect. Our origins. Truths we have sealed away. When you are ready, you shall know its secrets."

When you are ready. Miwa's heart thudded. She felt like a fraud. Her moment was never going to come, and she knew it. Why taint something so holy?

She heard herself ask, "You really believe in yokai? You think that it's not just stories, then?"

Her father didn't answer directly. He folded his hands in his lap. "I believe there are things out there that are beyond our understanding. I believe no one is ever truly alone."

She drank those words in, feeling a tingle in her arms. For some reason, it made her think back to the specific details of the gym attack Mikey and Raph had told her. Shadow hands? Summoning weapons? The Foot soldier pulling his face back Red-Skull style (Mikey's words. Not hers)? At first when she heard it, she thought they were exaggerating. Raph always was so dramatic. Mikey always bought into things that weren't there.

But when she gave it a second thought, the idea all of a sudden didn't sound that absurd. Was it really implausible that the head horse of the Foot Clan didn't dable in some satanic shit and then taught it to his pupils?

The second the story was over, she and her siblings had asked her father how that Foot ninja did it. Shredder taught him that, didn't he? It shouldn't even be possible, right?

As expected, their father dropped a cryptic line of: "surrendering to the shadows." Of course he did.

He placed the scroll back in its resting place and then turned back to her, studying her. He sat with his hands in his lap. "You seem a little quieter tonight."

Miwa's fingers dug into her thighs beneath the folds of her hoodie. "Just tired. You know how it is. Band. School. Work."

"Do you. . . want to talk to about it?"

Miwa's breath caught. "Oh, well. . . I don't want to bore you with the same story. It's just lack of sleep."

Yes, because the rush of Eden satisfies me in a way sleep never can.

"I sense that you are wearing your tiredness differently."

There it was. A father's intuition. The kind that cut deeper than any glass.

Something lingered in her father's gaze. "You know you can tell me anything, right?" It wasn't suspicion that glimmered in his voice, but hope. Hope that she would let him in. That she would say it. Whatever it was.

"Yeah. I know." The smile she offered him felt like glass carving itself into her gums. "Can we put a pin in this? I've got to go. . ."

Her father understood. Her duties outside of the dojo didn't wait. Or at least, that's what she hoped he thought. She rose to her feet and bowed. Just as she turned and began to walk away—

"Miwa," he called out. She turned her head. He was still seated, eyes low.

"Be mindful of what you carry in silence. The weight grows heavier when no one can see it," he advised. Ah, more glorious wisdom. It was so his style.

She could only offer a thin, brittle smile that didn't reach her eyes. Her head pounded faintly. Not from Eden's mini bursts of euphoric energy, but from guilt. She thought about her paradise. Thought about how she made it. Thought about her family and how proud they would've been. Thought about how all of it had been ruined— by her choices, no doubt. And of course. . . Tobias. Why couldn't he crawl back into the fucking wall?

Miwa proceeded to walk towards the door. She imagined her father was watching her leave, lingering in the silence long after she was gone. He was waiting for her shadow to return and confess from the sin it carried.

***

They said the best source of inspiration was observation of everyday life. The clothes that hung from mannequins from inside window displays, the mundane tasks performed by people who wished for a more provincial life, engaging conversations, and more obvious than not, the natural world. So many sounds, so many perspectives, and so much commentary.

True as it may be, but Miwa's best source of inspiration was when she was high. She got lost in the production, space, and being.  The colors were richer. The music more sharper and euphonious. Ideas bloomed from parts of her mind she didn't even know were there. It was like she thought about things she otherwise wouldn't think about. A new meaning in things; and new things in meanings.

For instance when she was sober, she had wrote about a rotting deer found in the streets that, if you cut into its belly, you'd find organic squirming creatures of all shapes and sizes. Yes— real crazy, huh? But when she smoked weed, suddenly the bizarre passage became an abstract allegory for symbolizing the pain of being forced to create wealth for the elite class, and yet society had the power to create their own sense of individuality by barfing up anything they wanted. Power didn't have to be surrendered to thrive.

The point was, that rush of creativity helped her write "Black and Blue", which was the band's most recognized and praised song. From then on, she never wanted to be stiffed of her inspiration. Don't get her wrong— it wasn't like she couldn't write her own lyrics without the assistance

She glanced at her phone. Her next class was in ten minutes. She pulled herself up, slinging her guitar over her shoulder. Her boots ambled against the porcelain tile as she smoothly maneuvered the incoming crowd. Her earbuds dangled from her neck, but no music played. Not like she needed it. The sweet, lingering trace of Eden in her system made everything already sound like a soft jazz solo in her head, like a background noise that dipped and faded like a tide. It made her head buzz faintly.

It also made her steer towards the vending machine. M&M's sounded good right now. Two dollars. She started searching her pockets for change, frowning when she came up a dollar short. She couldn't even afford a stupid candy? This was ridiculous.

She bent down and slid her hand through the slot. The M&M's were on the bottom row. The hallway was devoid of students who weren't socially suicidal enough to take evening classes. If she could only reach it. . .

While her fingers attempted to grab the bag, her ears hadn't caught the soft padding of footsteps nor had her eyes bothered to look in the reflection of the glass.

Which was why she froze when she heard the warm, yet familiar voice cut through the haze.

"I didn't know stealing snacks was a passing hobby of yours."

Miwa blinked, slowly turning around. Tilted her head up slightly as she sprang her knees back up. There he was. Casey Jones. Same shaggy hair, same cocky lean, same bomber jacket worn over a wrinkled jersey like he wandered out of bed and decided to call it fashion. Even the same smirk— easy, charming, and disarmingly genuine. The air felt charged, like a static shock waiting to happen. She thought it was so strange that he was right there in front of her, warm and sturdy and alive. It'd been. . . oddly weird not seeing him around.

Then again. . . the memory of the fight at the docks came in snapshots. He doesn't know. No matter how much Eden was in her system, she couldn't forget to act natural. To not let slip her family secret.

"You caught me," she said with mock resignation. She held out her wrists. "You going to arrest me?"

The light glossed something in his brown eyes. "I don't have cuffs. But tell you what— I'll let you walk it off if you do me a solid."

"No, I'm not going out with you. You haven't done anything with your hair."

"You know that's the second time you said that to me? I'm starting to think you have something against it." Casey pulled a playful pout.

"Isn't it obvious? It should be against your oath."

"Actually, the frat said it makes their average look better. That, combined with my exquisite face card."

"You mean worse."

He mock-clutched his chest. "Ouch. Can't you be more sweeter?" He then grinned. "That's fine. I like you when you're mean."

Miwa rolled her eyes, but she couldn't stop her lips from twitching into a faint smile. "I always knew you were a masochist. What's wrong with you?"

"We're still animals, aren't we? We all have our wild side. Except for Donnie, probably. The equivalent of a starfish."

"Oh? So what would you compare yourself to?"

"You really want me to answer that?"

"On second thought, maybe not. Because I think your wild side would be the equivalent of an anglerfish. Or a praying mantis. Whatever gets you eaten."

"Eaten, huh? Depending what way, that doesn't sound like a punishment."

"There is only one way, you dummy: the head."

"Exactly."

One beat. Then two. Then— Miwa widened her eyes. She gagged. "Is that why you decided to show up after you ghosted? To be disgusting?"

"I did not ghost. I've been. . . around. Doing things."

"Really? What kind of things?"

"The usual. School. Frat. Shit happened. Nothing exciting."

You left out the part where you somehow got involved with the Russians when you went MIA. Miwa didn't miss those tiny details where Casey's eyes looked sideways for a brief second. How his jaw tightened.

"I dunno. With you gone so long. . . one might've thought that you dropped out."

Casey gave a dry laugh. "Tobias would kill me before that ever happened. Something about how he says my name when serious will never not be funny." His smirk softened. "Besides, if I dropped out, I wouldn't be able to give you this—"

He reached into his back pocket and plucked a crumpled dollar bill. "M&M's, right? Just to eat the red ones first?"

She couldn't believe this guy. Miwa took her token, indignant but amused at the same time. "Lucky guess."

Silence crept in, but it wasn't the uncomfortable kind. It was the heavy kind— the kind that left someone breathless. For a second, it was like they were fifteen again. Back when he tried to ask her out after the talent show. When she'd turned him down gently and they both agreed it'd be something they'd tease each other about for years. A blip.

For another beat, they let the nostalgia fill the space between them.

"I missed you, y'know," she said, voice went softer than she meant to.

Casey glanced at her, surprised. To which she added quickly: "I don't know, um, I just wasn't used to you ripping me a new one."

He nodded, eyes a little distant than usual. "Yeah. Me too." The silence crept in before he asked, "How are you? Your family? Raph?"

She rubbed the back of her neck. Swayed a little. "They're good. Though, if you don't give some kind of answer to Raph to let him know that you're still alive, he's going to cook your ass alive."

"As long as he uses salt and pepper. Did he ever worry?"

"What do you think? The least you can do is put his bleeding little heart to rest."

"I know. It'll be nice to be back with you guys." Casey leaned in, fidgeting with his hair. He looked like he wanted to add something else, but he didn't. He stepped closer, almost looking like he was giving her once of those scanning glances. Like he was checking her pupils. The slight sheen on her skin.

"You okay?" He asked. "It looks like you're floating."

Miwa stiffened, lips parted. She then forced her voice to sound more grounded than she felt. "It's called style, Casey. You wouldn't know it if it hit you in the face."

"Good to know you still have your bite."

"Why would I get rid of the one thing I use to insult you?"

"Point there. Don't ever get rid of that. It means you you'll give me your unbridled attention."

"Unfortunately." She inserted her two dollars into the bill validator. She bent down again to this time claim her snack. "Anyway, I've got to go. Rain check? Well, that is if you don't plan to vanish for another six months."

Casey chuckled. "I'm glad I saw you." A pause. Then he added a little quieter, "You look great, superstar." He flashed a crooked smile and walked off, never looking back.

Miwa watched him go. Apparently both were living a lie. Something uncomfortable curled in her chest. Was it guilt? Longing? ? Maybe both. She wasn't sure.

She exhaled and walked the path to her classroom. The afterglow of Eden clung to her skin like humidity. Her head buzzed too much. After class, she went back to the townhouse, crawling into bed with the weightless numbness cradling her. She'd meant to tell her brothers— especially Raph— that she spoke with Casey. Not tonight. Tomorrow.

Probably.