The changing room of Sakura Tei was so quiet after closing that you could hear a pin drop. At 11:40 p.m., Ryuichi Sato's black Mercedes pulled up in the back alley right on time. Sakura untied the bow on her apron, but didn't change into casual clothes—she just slipped a black trench coat over her maid outfit, and the white petticoat with lace trim peeked out from under the hem.
"Yumi-nee, I'm going to take out the trash," Sakura said to the shop manager, who was still tallying the accounts. Her voice was just as sweet as usual.
Rainwater in the back alley created a mirror-like reflection on the ground. When Sakura opened the car door, Ryuichi Sato was wiping a katana with a flannel cloth; the blade mirrored her faintly glowing eyes.
"Are we learning this tonight?" Sakura's fingers hovered three centimeters above the blade.
Sato sheathed the sword. "First, let's test your reaction speed." He suddenly pulled a Glock 26 from under the seat and tossed it to her.
The way Sakura caught the gun made Sato raise an eyebrow—she supported the bottom of the magazine with her left hand, wrapped her right hand naturally around the grip, and her index finger lay straight against the outside of the trigger guard, a standard tactical ready position for holding a gun.
"My father served in the Iraq War," Sakura rotated the gun to check the chamber. "We have an old M1911 at home."
As the engine started, raindrops on the car window distorted Tokyo's neon lights. Sakura stared at the flowing light spots outside; the high-necked lace of her maid outfit cast a spiderweb-like shadow on her neck.
The underground training ground smelled of a mix of rust-proof oil and sweat. Sato took off his suit jacket, revealing a hannya tattoo on his forearm.
"First lesson," he suddenly grabbed Sakura's wrist and twisted it behind her back, "pain management."
Sakura's forehead hit the mat, and the frills of her maid outfit got dusted. She bit her lip to hold back a sound, but Sato saw her pupils contract for a split second.
"Breathe," Sato increased the pressure. "Pain is just a nerve signal, like a server alert—you need to learn to tell which ones to handle and which to ignore."
When her shoulder joint made a dangerous creak, Sakura suddenly relaxed all her muscles, rolled with Sato's force, and the hem of her trench coat flared up, showing the lace trim of her petticoat. The way she broke free was eerily similar to the polite evasion technique maids use when pestered by customers.
"Interesting," Sato let go. "Who taught you that?"
"A lecture on dealing with perverts in Akihabara," Sakura adjusted her askew hair accessory. "It's a required course for maids."
At 1:17 a.m., Sato brought in a man with a blindfold. The smell of blood reached Sakura's nose before her eyes registered the scene.
"Get the location of the Red Snake Group's warehouse in Shinagawa Ward," Sato handed her medical rubber gloves. "Use your own way."
The click of Sakura putting on the gloves was unusually sharp in the enclosed space. She approached the trembling man and suddenly spoke in her sweetest tone: "Master~ You look so worn out~"
While the man was stunned, Sakura's nails grazed the wound on his collarbone. Her movement was as gentle as piping cream on a cake, but the man let out a scream at once.
"At Sakura Tei," Sakura used her blood-stained finger to wipe the corner of his mouth, "we hate customers who waste food the most." She turned on her phone to play the café's opening jingle. "From now on, with each ring, we cut off one finger."
When the jingle rang for the third time, the man lost control of his bladder. Sakura kept her service smile, and the scalpel in her hand precisely avoided the major blood vessels.
"Yokohama Port, Area B23..." the man blurted out, vomiting as he spoke. Sakura turned to Sato, her eyes shining brightly: "Shall we verify? I can keep going..."
Sato noticed her grip on the knife had changed—just now it was a pen grip, and now it was reversed, exactly like holding a cake knife.
On the way back, Sakura took off the blood-stained gloves. Streetlights lit up the creases of her maid outfit intermittently; the lace trim, in the shadows, looked eerily like the tattoo patterns on Sato's arm.
"The maid tea party on Sunday," Sakura suddenly said, "the daughter of the Red Snake Group's second-in-command will come." She pulled an invitation from the hidden pocket of her petticoat; the outline of a gun handle was faintly visible through the gaps in the lace.
Sato smiled a real smile for the first time. He reached out to brush dust off Sakura's hair, his movement almost gentle: "Do you know why I chose you?"
Sakura looked at the car window, which reflected her flawless maid's smile: "Because maids are best at... cleaning up the mess without a trace?"
When the Mercedes stopped in the back alley of Sakura Tei, dawn had already tinted the sky. Sakura touched up her lipstick in the vanity mirror, then suddenly wiped the corner of her mouth with a blood-stained tissue.
"Oh, right," she turned back before getting off, "for next week's special dessert... how about red velvet cake?"
Sato's loud laughter scared the pigeons under the eaves away. Sakura walked toward the back door in the morning light, the hem of her trench coat fluttering with her steps, revealing dried blood on her petticoat—like fallen cherry blossom petals.