Chapter 5: Employment
The proprietress reached Suoh's table, her gaze assessing him with practiced ease.
"So you're the one looking for work here?"
Her voice matched her bearing—capable yet kind, businesslike without being cold.
"Yes, ma'am. My name is Suoh Tsukasa. I just arrived in the inner district from the outer areas."
Suoh—now properly introduced as Suoh Tsukasa—stood from his seat and bowed slightly as he replied.
The Soul Society had no strict identification system. The alias felt natural, easier for blending in.
"I'm hoping to find work here. Whatever needs doing in the kitchen—I can handle it."
The izakaya wasn't particularly large. One waitress seemed sufficient for the front of house.
The proprietress's dark sleeves showed water stains near the wrists—darker rings where moisture had soaked through the fabric. The kitchen was obviously the busiest area, so he'd aimed directly for the crucial position.
As for claiming he could "handle anything"—that wasn't empty boasting. Washing dishes, hauling supplies, prepping ingredients, cooking—he genuinely had experience with all of it.
He'd already scanned the menu on the wall when he first entered. All standard izakaya fare, and not even half as extensive as the place he'd worked at before transmigrating. Probably due to Rukongai's resource scarcity.
"Suoh Tsukasa?"
The proprietress repeated the name softly. An unusual surname, certainly, but nothing worth dwelling on.
"You say you can handle everything in the kitchen? Bold claim for someone so young."
She glanced at him again. The boy before her—from appearance to mannerisms—didn't look like someone accustomed to hard labor. Still, her curiosity was piqued.
"Let's see what you've got, then. Follow me."
She headed toward the kitchen without waiting for a response, clearly intending to test whether this confident young man actually had the skills to back up his words.
"Thank you very much!"
Suoh bowed again with genuine gratitude before following.
"Good luck!"
As he passed the waitress, she raised a small fist encouragingly and whispered her support.
Suoh glanced at her, his lips curving into a reassuring smile, then continued after the proprietress toward the kitchen.
He pushed through the dark fabric curtain separating the dining area from the back. The moment it fell behind him, the noise and chatter from the front seemed to vanish, replaced by the scents of fresh ingredients, lingering steam from washing, the smoky warmth of burning firewood, and the mixed aromas of various seasonings—that distinctive smell unique to working kitchens.
"Come on, start by helping prep."
The proprietress was clearly no-nonsense. She pulled a well-worn apron from the wall and tossed it to Suoh, gesturing toward the order tickets hanging nearby.
Then she moved to the stove, checking the simmering pot.
"Yes, ma'am."
Catching the apron, Suoh removed his stone axe from his waist and set it in an out-of-the-way corner. He tied on the apron, washed his hands at the sink, and walked directly to the stone basin holding live fish.
Aside from using an earthen stove for heat, Rukongai's izakaya layout matched what he remembered almost exactly. Nothing here threw him off.
The proprietress tended to her pot while keeping one eye on the new hire from her peripheral vision.
Suoh rolled up his sleeves, revealing lean but capable forearms. His hands moved with steady confidence as he pulled a bonito from the basin, bled it properly using the spike hanging at the basin's edge, then brought it to the sink where he scaled and rinsed it clean.
After patting the fish dry, he turned to the cutting board and grabbed a kitchen knife. Gutting, cleaning the cavity, precise cuts—each motion flowed seamlessly into the next without a single wasted movement.
That practiced, steady technique made the proprietress's eyes flash with surprise. The kid genuinely wasn't all talk.
"Ma'am, please check this."
Suoh placed the prepared fish on a wooden plate and slid it smoothly toward her.
Honestly, even he was somewhat surprised by his own performance. While he could cook at home, it had been years since he'd worked seriously in a professional kitchen. Yet today, the knife had felt like an extension of his own arm—natural and precise.
"Good. Continue."
After a brief glance, the proprietress nodded, indicating he should finish the dish.
"Yes, ma'am."
Sizzle!
A sharp, satisfying sound crackled through the kitchen as Suoh gripped the pan handle, gently tilting it to let hot oil coat the fish evenly.
Within moments, a primal, enticing aroma filled the air. When both sides of the fish wore golden-brown, crispy coats, he sprinkled on a pinch of coarse salt. The grains melted rapidly under the heat, seeping into the fish's flesh.
To enhance the flavor, Suoh drizzled a touch of sake into the pan just before plating. Steam carrying a mellow fragrance rose instantly from the pan's surface.
He slid the fish smoothly onto a ceramic plate, then added a small mound of freshly grated daikon radish on the side. The dish was complete.
The moment he finished, the proprietress's slender hand reached over. She tapped the fish lightly, brought a small piece to her lips, tasted it briefly, and nodded.
"Tsukasa. Just call me Terada-san from now on. Take this out."
"Oh, and the girl outside is Kotama. Make sure you thank her properly later."
No need for further words. This was the most direct acknowledgment and acceptance possible.
The proprietress had only come out initially because Kotama had pestered her relentlessly. She'd expected nothing. Instead, she'd stumbled onto a real find.
"Yes, Terada-san."
Suoh carried the plate to the serving window and set it down carefully. His fingers tapped the small copper bell at the counter's edge—one clear ding—before he turned back to tackle the remaining orders.
A short while later, Kotama came to pick up dishes and submit new orders. Through the window, she spotted Suoh and Terada-san working together in the kitchen, both moving with practiced efficiency. Her smile was radiant.
***
Before Evening Service
After the afternoon customers left, Suoh worked alongside Kotama and Terada-san to prepare everything needed for the evening shift. When the last stack of wooden bowls had been neatly put away, the three of them sat down together at the table near the serving window.
On the table sat a pot of steaming rice, several small dishes of pickled vegetables, a bowl of miso soup for each person, and one larger bowl of the stew that had been simmering since lunch. The stew's radishes, potatoes, and meat glistened enticingly, releasing a captivating aroma.
The once-bustling izakaya had fallen quiet. Only the occasional pop and crackle from the stove's dying embers and the faint bubbling from the stew pot broke the silence.
"Thank you both for your hard work."
"Eat up. We'll be busy again tonight."
Terada-san sat at the head of the table, her posture carrying the proprietress's characteristic efficiency. She carefully filled two bowls of rice and pushed them toward Suoh and Kotama on either side.
"Thank you for the meal."
All three pressed their palms together and spoke in unison. When the words faded, Kotama casually picked up a piece of pickled vegetable and placed it in her bowl. Terada-san ate her rice at an unhurried, measured pace.
For them, eating was more ritual than necessity—a way to soothe physical weariness in the comfort of food's aroma, to feel more tangibly alive.
Suoh, however, ate noticeably faster. His posture remained proper, his chewing quiet and controlled, but compared to the other two, his movements looked like someone had hit the fast-forward button.
Not that he could help it. God knew if he hadn't stolen small bites while tasting during cooking, he'd have collapsed from hunger in the kitchen hours ago.
Finally getting to eat a proper hot meal—Suoh had never found plain rice so movingly delicious!
Terada-san's gaze swept across his rapidly moving chopsticks. She said nothing, only quietly pushed the bowl of stew a few inches closer to him.
That subtle gesture made Suoh's hands pause briefly. Then he refocused on enjoying his first real meal since transmigrating.
***
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