The Yakuza’s Mute Bride novel Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The days blurred.

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At first, they passed like slow smoke – hours melting into one another inside the four thin walls of my room.

No one spoke to me except the servants who slid trays through the doorway. They never met my eyes. The first few days, 1 tried to smile at them, to mouth ‘thank you,’ but they looked away quickly, as if my silence itself were a curse.

I stopped trying after that.

The old man, Masayoshi Shun, hadn’t woken yet.

His condition, I overheard, was stable – the doctors said it was poison, but mild, as if the dose had been tested rather than meant to kill.

Those words circled my thoughts again and again. ‘Tested. Measured.

Someone had planned it. But it wasn’t me.

I spent the nights sitting by the window, the thin paper screen glowing with the pale reflection of the moon.

The pines outside swayed with a sound like whispers. Sometimes I wrote letters I would never send – one to my mother, one to the version of myself who still believed in love.

“They think I am guilty, but I only ever tried to belong. I clean, I serve, I learn. Yet even silence cannot save me.’

I tore that page out and folded it small, tucking it beneath the wooden floorboard under my bed.

On the fourth night, I heard footsteps.

Not the soft shuffle of servants, nor the heavy tread of guards. These were slower, deliberate. Closer.

The handle of the door slid halfway before stopping. Then nothing. No voice, no sound of retreat. Only a weight – someone standing there, listening.

I didn’t move. I only looked toward the faint shadow under the door.

After a moment, the steps retreated again.

The next morning, when the maid brought food, she glanced around the room before setting the tray down. Her eyes darted once to the window, then to me. “He watches,” she whispered under her breath, almost too quiet to hear.

I blinked, but she was already gone.

That night, I felt it again – that same quiet presence. The faint shift of air outside the screen, the weight of eyes I could not

see.

A week passed Before they let me step outside.

The guards followed, silent shadows behind me as I walked the gravel path to the garden. I moved slowly, my fingers brushing the bamboo railings, the air thick with the smell of wet leaves. The world outside had continued without me — flowers blooming and fading, the koi pond rippling with sunlight.

I sat by the veranda, the notebook resting on my knees, and drew.

Not words this time. Just lines the garden, the mountains, the stillness I wanted to keep. Drawing was another kind of voice, one that no one could take away.

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Chapter 7

Then I felt it again. That gaze.

I turned slightly, pretending to adjust my page, and saw him.

Tadashi.

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He stood a few paces away, half-shadowed by the edge of the corridor. No coat this time, only a simple black yukata. His arms were crossed loosely, his expression unreadable.

He didn’t speak. He only watched.

For a moment, I thought he might turn away. But instead, he walked closer, slow and measured, until his shadow brushed the sunlight on the wooden floorboards.

“You’re not afraid,” he said quietly. His English was steady, his tone more observation than question.

I didn’t look up. My pencil kept moving, tracing the outline of a pine branch.

He crouched beside me. His proximity made my breath catch metallic trace of his cologne.

He tilted his head, looking down at the paper. “You draw.”

I nodded once.

—

too near, too solid. I could smell faint smoke on him, the

His eyes followed the motion of my hand. “You don’t tremble when you see me,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Strange.”

I froze.

He caught the small hesitation, and the corner of his mouth – not a smile, but something like it – curved faintly. “If you’re pretending, you’re very good at it.”

I shook my head quickly, scribbling onto the page: ‘I have nothing to pretend.’

He read it, his gaze lingering on my handwriting before lifting back to my face. “Then maybe someone else is pretending for you.”

He straightened, his expression tightening again. “My grandfather woke up this morning,” he said suddenly. “He asked for tea. Then he asked for you.”

My heart stopped.

“He… what?” I mouthed silently.

Tadashi’s eyes softened by a fraction. “He says you’re the only one who knows how he likes it. I told him you’re not to go near his room yet.” A pause. “He wasn’t happy.”

Something like guilt flickered across his face – brief, unguarded.

Then, without another word, he turned and left, his footsteps fading down the hall.

That night, I lay awake, my thoughts twisting between fear and confusion. Masayoshi Shun was awake. Alive. And he wanted

to see me.

But Tadashi

–

the man who thought me a spy, a poisoner – wouldn’t let me near.

I rolled over and stared at the ceiling, whispering to the silence only I could hear: “Why does fate always let people speak for me… and never to me?”

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Chapter 7

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The wind outside rattled the paper doors. And somewhere in the house, I heard the low hum of a man’s voice-deep, calm, unhurried-speaking in Japanese. Even without understanding, I knew it was Tadashi.

And for the first time, I couldn’t tell if the sound frightened me… or comforted me.

The next morning came wrapped in mist..

The sky was pale silver, the kind of light that made everything feel fragile. The household was unusually tense. Servants moved fast, whispering in corners.

–

When I stepped into the hallway, I felt it a shift, an invisible storm brewing in the air.

Then came the footsteps. Quick, frantic.

A maid appeared, her face drained of color. “Naomi-san-” she whispered, trembling. “Tomo’s… dead. They-he… killed him.”

My heart stopped. “Tomo? The gardener?’

Before I could sign anything, she was pulled back by another servant, her voice swallowed by fear. The corridor filled with the sound of shouting.

I followed the noise before I could think, my bare feet silent on the floorboards.

The air grew heavier with every step-charged, electric.

Then I saw them.

The door to the courtyard was open, the cold wind rushing in. Inside, several men stood in a loose circle. And in the center – kneeling was a man I didn’t recognize. His clothes were torn, his head bowed, his body trembling.

Beside him, held down by two others, lay a bundle – a gardener’s sash. Tomo’s.

My breath hitched.

And there he was. Tadashi.

Standing before the kneeling man, silent, unmoving, his hand wrapped around a long, curved blade.

I had seen pictures of it before, in history books and museums – a katana, a traditional Japanese sword. But in his grip, gleaming in the gray morning light, it wasn’t a relic. It was alive.

He spoke in rapid Japanese, his voice low but sharp as the steel he held. The men around him responded with brief, clipped words submission, agreement.

–

Then silence,

The world seenfed to hold its breath.

The kneeling man sobbed once, words spilling out in broken pleas I couldn’t understand. Tadashi said something back — short, final and raised the sword.

The motion was swift, practiced, terrifyingly precise.

The blade sang once through the air and then, silence again.

—

I gasped, my hands flying to my mouth as the world tilted. My stomach lurched, and before I could stop myself, I turned

10:35 Tue, Jan 6

Chapter 7

and ran

out of the room, down the hall, to the nearest open door.

I barely reached the veranda before I fell to my knees, retching, my entire body shaking.

Behind me, I heard the faint shuffle of footsteps. One pair. Steady, unhurried.

I didn’t turn around, but I could feel his gaze.

Heavy. Cold. Watching.

Tadashi Masayoshi.

The man who had just taken a life

–

and now stood behind me in silence.

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10:35 Tue, Jan 6 •