The reduction is a disaster. It sits on the white porcelain like a bruised oil slick, the vinegar too sharp, the texture grainy. Mirai sets the silver spoon down with a sharp click that echoes against the glass walls of her corner office. Rain lashes the window, blurring the neon sprawl of Shinjuku into a smear of electric blue and magenta. Outside her locked door, the magazine's bullpen is a graveyard of empty desks and glowing monitors. She is the last one here. She always is.
Mirai rubs her temples. The review for Chef Kōga’s restaurant, Karasu, is due in seventy-two hours, and the man’s talent is as thin as the broth she just tasted. Her husband, Hiroshi, had texted an hour ago about dinner, but the architecture of her life doesn't leave room for simple meals. She lives in the spaces between reputations, the architect of a chef’s ruin or his resurrection. It would be so easy to burn him down.
A soft rasp breaks the rhythm of the rain. Mirai freezes, her gaze dropping to the floor. A heavy manila envelope begins to slide under the frosted glass of her locked office door.
