Beams of pale gold cut through the sheer curtains, turning the floating dust motes into suspended constellations. My Superhuman physiology usually demanded instant alertness, a zero to sixty transition that left no room for grogginess, but today, my mind allowed itself a rare luxury: a moment of peace.
I lay there for a minute, listening to the heartbeat of the penthouse.
And then, the smell hit me.
It was faint, drifting down the hallway like a beckoning finger. The umami richness of dashi stock and the caramelized scent of soy sauce hitting a hot pan.
I smiled at the ceiling.
I threw off the sheets and walked to the bathroom. The shower was a scalding cascade that washed away the lingering tension of the last few days.
I dressed simply. Black joggers and a white t-shirt that fit close to the skin.
I walked out of the room, following the scent.
When I rounded the corner into the kitchen, the scene was almost identical to the previous morning, yet the energy was entirely different. Yesterday, there had been a hesitant tension. Today, there was a rhythm.
Kimiko stood at the stove, wearing the same oversized grey hoodie, but she had rolled the sleeves up past her elbows. She was flipping a rectangular omelet in a square pan (tamagoyaki) with a flick of her wrist that was as precise as a sword strike.
"Ohayou," I said softly, leaning against the doorframe. 'Good morning.'
She turned, the spatula held loosely in her hand and gave me a small smile. She raised her hand and signed, her fingers moving fluidly.
'Good morning.'
I walked over to the island. "You are spoiling me," I said in Japanese. "Two days in a row? I might forget how to cook for myself."
She rolled her eyes (a wonderfully normal gesture) and pointed to a pile of scallions on the cutting board. Then she pointed to a knife.
'Work for it.'
"Understood, Chef," I grinned.
I washed my hands and took my station beside her. I chopped the scallions, the sharp thwack thwack thwack of the blade creating a beat. She handled the fish, sliding the mackerel under the broiler.
We carried the food to the dining table. The spread was impressive. The rolled omelet, grilled mackerel, miso soup with clams, pickles and steaming white rice.
We sat. She served me first, placing the bowl of rice with two hands, a gesture of respect that I returned with a bow of my head.
"Itadakimasu."
The food was incredible, better than anything my private chefs could have concocted, simply because it was made by her.
After the meal, as we cleared the table, I gestured to the living room.
"Class is in session," I said in English.
She nodded, a look of determination crossing her face.
We sat on the floor by the coffee table, a stack of children's workbooks and flashcards spread out between us. It was absurd, really.
A billionaire arms dealer and a super powered assassin, sitting on a Persian rug worth more than a house, looking at pictures of apples and balls.
"A," I said, pointing to the letter. "Apple."
She mimicked the shape of the mouth, though no sound came out. She picked up a pen and wrote the letter A in the notebook. Her handwriting was jagged, fierce strokes that threatened to tear the paper.
"Gently," I said, reaching out. I placed my hand over hers. Her skin was warm, her hand small but dense with muscle. I guided her movement, smoothing out the jagged lines into a curve. "Like water."
She looked at our hands, then up at me. Her eyes were dark pools, unreadable but intense. We stayed like that for a moment, my hand covering hers, the silence stretching thin.
Then, she gently pulled her hand free and wrote the letter B perfectly. She looked at me, a smug eyebrow raised.
I laughed. "Okay. Show off."
We spent two hours like that. She was a sponge, her enhanced brain soaking up the syntax and vocabulary at a terrifying rate.
Around noon, I turned on the massive wall mounted TV. I kept the volume low.
The news channel was breaking in with a special report. The banner at the bottom of the screen read: TRAGEDY IN D.C.: TWO POLITICIANS DEAD.
I leaned forward, my eyes narrowing.
"Breaking news," the anchor said, her face grave. "Senator Mitchell, Chairman of the Defense Appropriations Committee, was found dead in his New York penthouse early this morning. Preliminary reports indicate a massive cardiac event."
The screen flashed a photo of the Senator.
"In a shocking coincidence," the anchor continued, "Congressman Halloway was also found dead at his estate in Greenwich. Authorities are citing natural causes, likely heart failure brought on by stress. Both men were key figures in the upcoming military budget hearings."
I sat back, hiding a cold smile behind my hand.
Natural causes.
Kimiko tapped my knee. I looked over. She was pointing at the screen, a question in her eyes.
"Bad men," I said simply. "They hurt people. Now they are gone."
She nodded, accepting the summary. She didn't care about politics. She pointed to the remote, then mimed a sword swing.
"You want to watch the samurai show?" I asked.
She nodded.
I switched the input.
We watched in silence for a while, the rhythmic clashing of steel on steel filling the room.
On screen, the ronin protagonist was engaged in a duel in a bamboo forest. The choreography was beautiful, a blur of motion and intent.
Kimiko sat up straighter. Her eyes tracked the swords. Her muscles twitched, mirroring the strikes.
She turned to me. She stood up and mimed holding a sword, swinging it in a fluid arc. Then she pointed at me, then at the door leading to the gym.
'Let's fight.'
I smiled. "You think you can take me today?"
Her eyes sparkled. She held up two fingers, then made a zero with her hand. 2-0. She was keeping score of our sparring sessions.
"Fine," I said, standing up. "Let's go."
I went to the weapon rack and retrieved the two white oak bokken. I tossed one to her.
She caught it out of the air without looking, the wood slapping into her palm with a sharp crack.
She launched herself at me.
She covered the twenty feet between us in a heartbeat, the wooden sword sweeping in a horizontal arc aimed at my ribs.
I stepped into the strike, blocking it with a vertical parry. The wood clacked loudly.
She spun, using the momentum of the block to fuel a backhand strike. I ducked, feeling the wind of the wood passing inches above my head.
We were both holding back, of course, if we used our full strength, the wooden swords would shatter into splinters on the first impact… but the speed was superhuman.
We traded blows in a rapid fire staccato rhythm.
Clack clack clack clack.
She was a whirlwind, attacking from every angle, using her agility to bounce off the walls, to slide under my guard. I was the anchor, moving with minimal motions, turning her aggression against her.
She lunged for a thrust. I sidestepped, trapping her sword under mine. I twisted, disarming her. The bokken flew from her hand and skittered across the mat.
I brought my sword up, stopping the tip an inch from her throat.
"Dead," I whispered.
She froze. Her chest was heaving, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. Her eyes were wide, locked on mine.
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