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It was Atsumu who found the unconscious stranger behind The Hungry Ghost and carried him into the kitchen, where Sachirou was steaming the first batch of shu mai for the evening service.
“Um, what the hell is that?” Sachirou asked, pointing.
The stranger had short, thick white hair that tufted around his ears like feathers. At first, Sachirou thought it was dyed, like the bleached atrocity atop of Atsumu’s head, but then he saw that the stranger’s eyelashes were white, too. They fluttered against his cheeks as he breathed deeply—cheeks that were rounded and soft, their youthfulness belying his white hair.
“I found him all slumped over next to the dumpster,” Atsumu explained. “Didn’t wanna leave him there, so I thought I’d bring him in.”
“To do what, exactly? Rob us?”
Atsumu rolled his eyes. “You gotta stop bein’ so suspicious, Sachirou-kun. He doesn’t seem like a bad guy.”
“And you have to stop being so gullible. How do you know he’s not a bad guy?”
“Call it a gut instinct. Look, I’ll put him in one of the booths. That way I can keep an eye on him, and when he wakes up we can give him some food and send him on his way.”
“You want to give him free food?”
Atsumu looked at him with those stupid, melting brown eyes that were eerily similar to Koutarou’s whenever he was begging for a treat. “C’mon, Sachirou-kun, have a heart. Don’tcha wanna do a good deed?”
Sachirou sighed. He had 200 shu mai to prep before the first customers arrived; he didn’t have time to argue with Atsumu.
“Okay, fine, whatever. But he gets no more than 10 pieces, and if he breaks or steals anything then it’s on you. Got it?”
*
The Hungry Ghost was what some might call a hole in the wall, a phrase which implied a grungy sort of charm. It could more realistically be termed a shithole. Located in the city’s downtown, it was crammed between a bookstore run by a rowdy owl spirit and the offices of a cursebreaker whom Atsumu swore was a hack (“All of his clients end up dying, Sachirou-kun!”).
The kitchen was stuffy in the winter, downright suffocating in the summer, and sweltering hot no matter what the season. The dining room barely fit three booth tables—bought used from another restaurant’s closing out sale—and the chipped counter where Atsumu stood, greeting people and taking orders.
In the morning, students and workers, white and blue collar alike, arrived. Some lingered outside before the restaurant even opened, eager to rush in and order a hot breakfast to go. Mid-morning found the booths filled with middle-aged housewives who’d finished dropping their kids off at school and elderly people who were bored and lonely. They lingered over empty plates and steaming cups of tea, chatting with Atsumu. Then it was time to close for the afternoon, so Sachirou and Atsumu could eat their much-delayed lunch and rest before opening again at midnight.
Midnight was when yokai and their supernatural brethren took to the streets, mingling and conducting their business in the darkness as naturally as ordinary humans did in the sun. Most humans made sure to be safely in bed by then, afraid of something that they were aware of but didn’t understand. Only those like Sachirou, who were comfortable moving through this alternate world, remained.
Tonight, the restaurant was especially busy. The booths quickly filled up, and the overflow spilled onto the street in front of the restaurant, where everyone stood chatting and eating from takeout boxes. Familiar faces stopped by, including the owl spirit and his bespectacled husband, whose hair was perpetually ruffled from sleeping in his cramped coffin.
As Sachirou expected, Atsumu got caught up taking orders and talking to the owl spirit, and forgot to keep a proper eye on the stranger like he’d promised. Sachirou took it upon himself to check on him when things slowed down a little. He was taking up a whole booth by himself, so the sooner he left, the better.
Sachirou found him awake and sitting up to observe his surroundings. He was oddly calm for someone who’d woken up in a strange place. His large, golden eyes, bird-like in their intensity, held no fear as he looked at Sachirou and asked, “So, can I assume that you’re Hirugami Sachirou? ‘Cause blondie over there is not what I imagined you’d look like.”
Sachirou made it a point to never get ruffled—there were few things in life worth getting worked up over—but this stranger came close to doing it. And not just because he knew Sachirou’s name—no, it was something about his attitude, like in spite of all appearances he was in control of this situation.
“That’s me,” he said, smiling like he would at a difficult customer. “And you are? I don’t believe we’ve met before.”
“We haven’t. I’m Hoshiumi Kourai.”
“Okay, Hoshiumi Kourai. Why were you dumpster diving behind my restaurant?”
Kourai scowled. “I wasn’t dumpster diving! I was tired, and I figured I’d sit down to catch my breath before going in. Next thing I know I’m conked out.”
“Next to a dumpster?”
“I had a rough journey, okay? It’s a long story.”
His unwillingness to talk seemed to stem from grumpiness and exhaustion rather than furtiveness, so Sachirou didn’t press any further for the moment.
“How do you know me?” he asked. “And are you going to order something? Because if not, I’m kicking you out.”
Kourai’s gaze was open and direct. “I’m looking for someone, and I was told that your restaurant’s a hot spot for information. Oh, also apparently your shu mai’s the best in town.”
Sachirou studied Kourai. His skin had a healthy flush, and Atsumu had found him outside when it was still light. Not a vampire, then. He flicked his glance down at Kourai’s hands. Broad, strong, and rough-skinned around the fingertips, most likely from vigorous washing. In spite of that, there were slivers of dirt and dried blood trapped underneath the blunt fingernails.
“It’s definitely better than what you’d get at most places. If you want it raw though you’ll have to eat the filling by itself, because I draw the line at raw dough.”
Kourai grinned, revealing canine teeth so large and sharp that it was probably more accurate to classify them as fangs. “I’ll take half raw and half cooked, then. 20 pieces.”
“You’re not getting more than 10, unless you plan on paying. And if you’ve got questions about anything besides the food—” Sachirou jerked a finger behind him, indicating Atsumu. “He’s the one with all the gossip.”
He turned to go back to the kitchen, and Kourai called after him, “Make it 15 then! Hey, are you even listening? I’ve traveled a really long way to get here, you know! Hey!”
Sachirou poked his head out of the kitchen doors. “Fine, 15. But you’re washing the dishes.”
Kourai, who had twisted around in the booth to look at Sachirou, squawked. “All of them? I might as well get the full 20 then!”
He looked so offended that Sachirou couldn’t help laughing. Even though he still knew next to nothing about Kourai, he couldn’t help believing that whoever it was that he was looking for, he did it with pure intentions. Maybe it was gut instinct, like Atsumu had said. Sachirou let the kitchen doors swing shut behind him, and re-entered the kitchen to prepare dinner for his newest guest.