Chapter 21: Fractured Mirrors
Dawn found me stirring rice porridge with military precision. The kitchen's Sub-Zero refrigerator hummed its disapproval as Shangguan Zhi emerged from his study, shirt rumpled like discarded wrapping paper. When he reached to adjust his collar, I flinched so violently the wooden spoon clattered into the pot.
"Still afraid of me?" His morning voice carried the roughness of unsanded teak.
The therapist's office reeked of bergamot and false promises. Kei's "friend" turned out to be a human scalpel in Prada - Dr. Iwata Kazuko, who dissected my psyche over matcha cheesecake.
"Let's play a game," she purred, activating a wall screen. The pornographic footage exploded across the room before I could blink. A woman's ecstatic scream morphed into my own retching as lunch revisited the Italian marble floor.
"Fascinating," Kazuko observed, stepping over my humiliation. "Virginity isn't just physical, is it?" Her stiletto tapped a staccato verdict. "Your mind's still clutching its hymen."
The revelation came wrapped in clinical cruelty: Zhì's kisses had been therapeutic roleplay, his seduction attempt a diagnostic tool. They'd mapped my trauma like surveyors charting earthquake faults. Even the rubber duck in his shower - apparently standard issue for his "patients."
That night, my apartment's silence amplified every ticking clock. I curled beneath childhood quilts smelling of Dalian sea air, replaying Zhì's hands adjusting my bathrobe belt - had that been data collection too? When sleep finally came, it brought twisted visions: Zhì morphing into my attacker, both men laughing as they compared clinical notes.
At 3:17 AM, I awoke choking on phantom fingers. The neon "24hr" sign across the street painted my walls surgical green. Somewhere in Minato Ward, Zhì's penthouse elevator probably still smelled of my shampoo.
I pressed a palm to the cold window. Tokyo glittered below, its endless light towers masking darker transactions. For the first time, I understood my mother's warnings - in this city, even rescue came bar-coded. The real violation wasn't the alley assault, but discovering my heart had been case study #0471 in some corporate-funded recovery program.
The microwave clock flipped to 3:33. Three for betrayal, three for farce, three for the seconds it took Zhì to dismantle my defenses. I traced the condensation trails on glass, watching them bleed into nothingness.