Chapter 21: A Hard Pill to Swallow
In a quiet corner of Tokyo stood the Okushaki Café, a place celebrated not just for its coffee and tea-but for crafting them exactly the way you wanted. Sweet coffee? They had it. Bitter black? No problem. From green teas to fruit infusions, the café catered to every palate.
The menu didn't stop there-desserts of every kind graced the shelves: biscuits, cakes, gelatins, pastries, tarts, puddings, and more.
During Ramadan, the café also prepared special iftar dishes-mutton, dates, biryani, rasmalai, sharbat, and other cultural staples. And surprisingly, the head of this culinary operation wasn't a veteran chef.
It was a 17-year-old high school student:
Akeshi.
Why him? Because Akeshi was no ordinary teenager.
He had an almost superhuman ability to replicate authentic, culturally-rich flavors. He didn't just watch cooking videos-he analyzed them. He studied airflow, utensils, kitchen environment, and preparation rituals to understand the soul of a dish.
Earlier that day, he'd been unexpectedly told to cook from 4 PM instead of the usual 5 PM. No warning. No prep time.
So what did he do?
He asked for 23 phones from the staff, played 23 different recipes, and absorbed them simultaneously in 12 minutes.
Then? He repeated the process with 23 more.
By the time he handed the phones back, he had memorized 46 iftar dishes.
He called in five coworkers-Rokusake Ken, Miyamura Taukasa, Akimura Roku, Kirigami Itsuka, and Nakamura Tokuchi.
"Ken, handle the onion and chili. One layer only-don't overdo it."
"Tsukasa, prep the dishes."
"Roku, blend the sliced chili and onion separately."
"Satoshi, soak the peas in vinegar. After 20 minutes, pass them to Roku."
"Itsuka, stay near me-I'll call out what I need."
He clapped once. "Alright, let's cook."
They got to work without missing a beat.
This was food made for those fasting from dawn, hoping for salvation. Akeshi wouldn't let anything disrupt that sense of purpose.
Within thirty minutes, they completed over a dozen dishes.
Leftovers would go to the local homeless shelters-something Akeshi had insisted become routine.
Another hour passed. Twelve more dishes finished. As they all sat to take a break, Ashley Quinoa, a girl with lavender-dipped hair covering one eye, handed out glasses of water.
"Thanks, Ashley," Akimura said.
"That hit the spot," Akeshi added. "Thanks, Quinoa-san."
Ashley was a classmate of Rokusake, studying arts while he majored in literature. Despite different fields, they had grown close in this tight-knit café crew.
Ding!
The bell above the door chimed.
A familiar figure entered-Evan, the detective who frequented the café.
"I got this one," Akeshi said, standing and heading to the counter.
"Yo," he greeted.
"Hello, Mr. Evan. Good to see you again."
"Same," Evan muttered, slumping onto the counter.
"Same order?"
"Hm. Same shit."
The espresso machine hissed as Akeshi brewed his usual latte.
"You look tired," he noted.
"I am tired." Evan grabbed the cup and took a sip-then winced. "Hot!"
Akeshi gave him a look. "You know it's fresh. Careful next time, detective."
Evan smirked. "We found a body. Down at the harbor."
Akeshi blinked. "Another one?"
"We can't figure it out. No ID match."
"Check internationally?"
"Did. Got a hit. But the victim was squeaky clean. Model citizen."
"Which means he was hiding something."
"Exactly. But his search history? Wiped. ISP won't share more."
"It's a murder case."
"They claim privacy laws. Pathetic."
Akeshi leaned closer. "Can I try a deduction?"
"Please."
"Were there any markings on the body?"
"A zero. Clean. Perfectly carved."
"And in the past week? Any similar deaths?"
"Two others."
"How far apart?"
"Two days each."
"Any marks?"
"One had two scratches. One had a scratch and an attempted mark-looked like a three."
Akeshi paused, then nodded slowly. "So-zero, two, and attempted three?"
"Right."
He snapped his fingers. "Then the message is: 'Only one person remains."
Evan blinked. "What?"
"It's sequential. Someone's leaving a countdown. There's a fourth target."
He stared at his now-empty latte.
"Want a refill?"
Evan nodded, speechless. "You're something else, kid..."
"Thanks. But... why are you on this case? Did the police pass?"
"Yeah. Smells like politics. Either the victim was in office -or pissed someone powerful off."
Just then, Akeshi's phone vibrated. An unknown number.
He picked up. "Akeshi speaking."
‹I'm Amanika Iruma.›
Akeshi's eyes widened. "Oh! Uncle-in-law! Nice to finally speak to you. How are-"
‹Come to the flat. Something happened to Nino...›
The room froze. Akeshi's body stiffened.
"...What happened?"
Evan narrowed his eyes. Something was wrong.
‹I... I can't say. Just... come. Please.›
The uncertainty in Iruma's voice struck like lightning.
Akeshi's breath hitched. For a moment, the world fell away-noise, light, everything dulled.
He stared at the name on the screen: Amanika-san.
He jumped off the counter.
Still, he paused.
He quickly made Evan's refill-hot, creamy, smooth-and placed it in front of him.
"Ken!" he called. "You're on counter!"
Then, he raced outside and flagged a cab.
"Drive," he said. "Fast. Take me to the seaside hotel : Ortagon. Now."