Chapter 1: Hit the girl
The frosted-glass lobby of the Hoshinoya Kyoto was a vault of silent light. Sophie Bergman pushed through the black-lacquered door, and the world of buzzing cicadas and humid night air vanished, replaced by a chill, fragrant stillness. Paper lanterns, glowing like captured moons, hung from the cedar beams. Their amber light bled through the intricate, snowflake-like patterns of the glass walls, casting shifting, lace-work shadows over the endless expanse of polished tatami. The floor felt impossibly pristine under her boots, a forbidden surface. The air hummed, but not with noise—with the ghost of a sound: the quiet clink of a sake cup from some unseen recess, the distant, murmured cadence of a shōjin ryōri feast that had long since ended. Outside the glass, cherry blossom petals, pale as flesh in the darkness, drifted past like fallen confetti.
It was the middle of the night. Even the reception desk was abandoned, a sleek curve of dark wood under a single downlight. The silence was so complete it pressed against her eardrums. Her flight had been delayed, then the car service got lost on the winding roads up to Arashiyama. All she wanted was her key, a bed, and the oblivion of sleep before the hell of the first table read tomorrow.
She sighed, the sound too loud in the sacred quiet, and dropped her duffel bag. It thumped disrespectfully on the tatami. That’s when she saw her.
The only other person in the hotel.
In a sunken seating area nestled between two sweeping panels of frosted glass, a woman was asleep on a low, upholstered chair. She was curled on her side, one arm tucked under her head. She wore loose grey sweatpants and a matching zip-up hoodie, the uniform of travel. A phone had slipped from her loose grip onto the cushion. Sophie stood there, unsure. She should probably just wait for someone to appear at the desk. But the loneliness of the lobby, the deep, vulnerability of the sleeping figure, pulled at her.
She walked over, her steps silent on the matting. Up close, the woman was… startling. Even in sleep, with her face smoothed of expression, she was beautiful in a way that felt like a statement. Blonde hair, the color of wheat, was tangled across her cheek. Her features were strong—a straight nose, a full mouth, the kind of jawline photographers loved. Sophie felt a faint, unwelcome pang. She had the sharp, dark look people called ‘interesting,’ but this was classic, sun-kissed allure. She found her very beautiful.
“Hello?” Sophie said softly. No response. She reached out, hesitant, and touched the woman’s shoulder through the soft fabric of the hoodie. “Hey.”
The woman’s eyes flew open. They were a clear, sharp blue, and for a second they held pure, animal panic. Then they focused, the panic melting into confusion, then into a lazy, amused recognition.
“Oh, shit,” the woman said, her voice husky with sleep. She stretched, the movement cat-like and unselfconscious. “You must be Sophie. Bergman, right?” She sat up, running a hand through her hair.
“Yeah. Sophie. Sorry to wake you.”
“Don’t be. I was waiting for you.” The woman—Kat, it had to be Katherine Vance—smiled. It was a warm, disarming smile that reached her eyes. “I figured someone else had to be cursed with the redeye. I’m Kat. We met, sort of. On that interminable Zoom call.”
“The one where we all pretended we weren’t judging each other’s bookshelves? I remember.”
Kat laughed, a rich, genuine sound that bounced softly off the glass. “Yours was all Pinter and Chekhov. Very serious. I was intimidated.”
“Yours was a stack of vintage horror paperbacks and a suspiciously well-positioned plant. I was intrigued.”
“The plant was strategic. Hides the mess.” Kat stood, unfolding her long, curvy frame. She was taller than Sophie, athletic in a way that suggested pilates or rock climbing, not just gym routines. “So, fun story. I beat you here by a couple hours. Went to check in, and the very nice, very confused gentleman at the desk had a minor crisis. There’s a big design conference in the city, some kind of double-booking snafu… long story short, they’re slammed. The room they had for you? Doesn’t exist.”
Sophie felt a knot of tired anxiety tighten in her stomach. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Kat said, zipping her hoodie up a little, “they’ve put us in the same suite. Apparently it’s a two-bedroom situation, plenty of space. They were falling over themselves apologizing, offered all sorts of comps for the spa and the restaurant. I said it was fine, pending your approval, of course.” She tilted her head, those blue eyes assessing Sophie’s reaction. “If it’s weird, we can raise hell and demand they find a janitor’s closet for one of us. But honestly, after fourteen hours in transit, I don’t have the energy. And the suite looks insane from the pictures.”
Sophie processed this. Sharing a space. With a stranger. A beautiful, seemingly pleasant stranger who was also her co-star. Her father’s voice, pragmatic and cold, echoed in her head: Always assess the tactical advantage. Being closer to a castmate could be useful. It could also be a nightmare. But the thought of dragging her bag back out into the night, of dealing with a confrontation in her exhausted, fragile state, was infinitely worse.
“No,” Sophie said, surprising herself with how firm her voice sounded. “It’s not weird. Or, it is, but I’m too tired to care. A suite sounds great.”
Kat’s smile widened. “Come on, they left the keys with me.”
She scooped up her phone and a small leather backpack, leading the way back toward the desk. She retrieved two old-fashioned brass keys on heavy wooden fobs from a cubby behind it. “Service here is… different. Trust-based. I could be anyone, stealing these.”
“Are you anyone?” Sophie asked, the words out before she could filter them.
Kat glanced back, her expression unreadable for a flicker. Then the easy smile returned. “I’m Kat. The third wheel in this cinematic masterpiece. The one who gets maybe one really good monologue before something gruesome happens. That’s who I am.” She handed Sophie a key. Its weight was solid, comforting.
They walked towards the elevator, a seamless door of the same frosted glass. Kat pressed the call button. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was filled with the unspoken facts of their situation: they were actors, about to be trapped together in a remote hotel for six weeks, to make a film about betrayal and haunting. The elevator arrived with a soft ding.
The interior was lined with woven bamboo. It smelled of lemongrass and clean linen. As the doors slid shut, enclosing them in the silent, ascending box, Kat leaned against the wall.
“So, you excited to be the tragic heroine?” she asked.
“I’m excited to have a job,” Sophie said, watching the floor numbers light up silently. “The ‘tragic’ part I can do in my sleep.”
“Right. Because of the… family thing.” Kat’s tone was carefully neutral.
Sophie felt her guard slam up, a reflexive hardening in her chest. “What about it?”
“Nothing. Just, it’s a small industry. People talk. The whole ‘my best friend married my dad’ drama is… juicy. Must give you a lot to draw from for this role.” Kat wasn’t looking at her; she was examining her own reflection in the bronze elevator trim, turning her face slightly.
“I try to keep my personal life out of my work,” Sophie lied smoothly.
“Sure. That’s why we’re all here, because we’re so well-adjusted.” Kat laughed, a short, dry sound. “I think it’s brave. Facing it all down, on set, with her right there. Rose, I mean.”
The sound of the name in this confined space was like a pinprick. “It’s not brave. It’s a contract.”
The elevator slowed. “Well,” Kat said, pushing off the wall as the doors opened onto a hushed, dimly-lit corridor of more tatami and pale paper walls. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re perfect for the part. You’ve got that look. Like you’re keeping a secret that’s eating you alive. The camera will love it.”
It was a blunt, almost clinical observation, but it was followed by a compliment so direct it disarmed Sophie completely. “My ‘look’ is mostly jetlag and unresolved anger.”
“No, it’s not.” Kat stopped in front of a sliding paper door marked with a subtle willow branch motif. She slid the key into a discreet wooden lock. “It’s the sharp cheekbones. The dark hair. Those intense green eyes—they’re crazy photogenic, you know. And that little scar above your eyebrow? It’s perfect. Adds a story. A flaw that makes the rest of the face more interesting.” She said it like she was discussing the specifications of a camera lens. Matter-of-fact. “Rose has that soft, open face. The kind that begs for sympathy. You have the face that fights back. It’s going to play really well against each other.”
Sophie was silent, unnerved. No one had ever described her features as a tactical advantage before. She usually got ‘striking’ or ‘severe.’ Kat made it sound like weaponry. Before she could formulate a response, Kat pushed the door open.
The suite took the breath from Sophie’s lungs. It was a series of interconnected spaces, all flowing into one another. The main room was a vast plateau of tatami, bordered on one side by a wall of glass looking out into a carefully curated pocket garden, illuminated by submerged lights that made a small koi pond glow like liquid emerald. A low sofa and two deeply cushioned chairs surrounded a black lacquer table. A sliding paper door led off to a bedroom chamber, with futon laid out on a raised platform. The air was cool and scented with hinoki wood.
“Holy shit,” Sophie whispered.
“Told you,” Kat said, dropping her bag by the door. “Not bad for a forced roommate situation.“
Sophie dragged her duffel into the chamber. It was serene, spare. A single calligraphy scroll hung in an alcove. She turned to find Kat leaning in the doorway between the bedroom and the living room.
“You wanna raid the mini-bar? I saw they have these insane local craft beers. My treat, as an apology for invading your space.”
Sophie hesitated. The sensible thing was to say no, to retreat, to build the wall now. But the loneliness of the lobby still clung to her, and Kat’s presence, for all its unknown edges, was warm and alive.
“Yeah,” Sophie said.“Okay. One beer.”
“One beer.”
Kat’s smile was quick and bright. “Excellent. You unpack, I’ll scavenge.”
Sophie unzipped her duffel in the serene bedroom as Kat moved through the main space, the soft rustle of her sweatsuit against the tatami a comforting, domestic sound. Sophie pulled out a worn t-shirt and pyjama shorts, laying them on the crisp, folded futon. The sheer normalcy of it—preparing for bed in this breathtaking, alien place—was surreal.
“Score,” Kat called out. “Two local IPAs and a packet of these weird rice cracker things. Dried plum flavour. Brave or foolish?”
“Both,” Sophie said, walking back into the living area.
Kat had already opened the bottles with a soft pssht and handed one over. They clinked the heavy glass together without a toast. The beer was bitter, floral, and surprisingly good. Sophie sank into one of the deep armchairs, curling her legs beneath her. Kat took the sofa, stretching her long legs out onto the low table. For a few minutes, they just drank in silence, the only sounds the gentle hum of the climate control and the occasional soft plip of a koi breaking the surface of the pond in the garden.
“So, Rose gets in tomorrow?” Kat asked, her tone carefully casual.
“Mid-afternoon, I think.” Sophie took another swallow, the cold liquid sharp on her tongue. “With him.”
“The dad-husband.”
“The dad-husband,” Sophie confirmed, the term tasting as sour as the beer was bitter. She realised she’d never said it out loud before.
Kat watched her, blue eyes reflective in the low light. “That’s fucked up. For the record.”
“You don’t know the details.”
“Don’t need to. Some lines you just don’t cross. The friend-to-stepmom pipeline is one of them.” Kat shrugged. “But what do I know? My family’s a mess of divorces and second cousins who don’t speak. We have no lines, just a big, sad blur.”
Sophie almost smiled. It was a disarming thing to say, a offering of her own damage to level the field. “This was a line. A big, bright, fucking neon one. She knew it. He knew it. They crossed it anyway.”
“And now you have to play sisters-in-arms, or whatever our characters are, with her.” Kat shook her head, a loose strand of blonde hair falling across her cheek. “That’s some next-level method acting hell they’ve cast you into.”
“It’s just a job.” The mantra felt weaker every time she said it.
“Sure. And this is just a beer.” Kat tipped her bottle at Sophie. “It’s okay to admit it sucks. I won’t tell your agent.”
Sophie met her gaze. There was no pity there, just a flat, acknowledging curiosity. It was easier to take than sympathy. “It sucks,” she said, the words simple and true. “It sucks so much it sometimes feels like a physical thing, sitting here in my ribs. A heavy, cold stone.”
Kat nodded slowly, as if Sophie had confirmed a scientific hypothesis. “Yeah. That sounds about right.” She finished her beer and set the bottle down with a decisive click. “Want another?”
“Better not. That one’s already going to my head. Time difference.”
“Fair. I should crash too. Big, scary first day tomorrow.” Kat stood up and stretched, the hem of her hoodie riding up to reveal a strip of taut, tanned stomach. “Which bedroom did you want? They’re basically identical.”
Sophie got up and slid open the paper door to the second sleeping chamber she hadn’t yet entered.
It was empty.
Not just unoccupied. Empty. There was no second futon, no bedding stacked in the alcove, no low platform. Just bare, beautiful tatami and a scroll painting of a storm-tossed sea.
“Oh,” Kat said, peering over her shoulder. “Huh. That’s not a bedroom.”
“It’s a meditation space. Or a crying room. Definitely not a bedroom.”
“Well, shit. The two-bedroom suite my ass.” Kat didn’t sound annoyed, more amused. “Want me to go raise hell at the desk? There’s probably a broom closet free.”
Sophie looked from the empty room back to the single, neatly made futon in the first chamber. The exhaustion was a lead blanket over her shoulders. The thought of more negotiation, of waiting alone in this vast suite while they scrambled to find another solution, was unbearable. The beer had softened her edges, and Kat’s presence had morphed from an intrusion to a neutral, maybe even pleasant, fact.
“Don’t be stupid,” Sophie said, her voice softer than she intended. “It’s a huge futon. We can share.”
Kat raised an eyebrow. A slow, considering look. “You sure? I’m a notorious blanket hog. And I sometimes talk in my sleep. Really dark, weird stuff. Childhood trauma stuff.”
“I think I can handle it.”
“Okay,” Kat said, holding her hands up in surrender. “But I’m also fine with the sofa. Seriously. If it’s going to make you tense. We just met. It’s a weird ask.”
Sophie waved her off, a dismissive flick of her wrist. “It’s fine. We’re adults. It’s just sleeping.”
Kat’s expression softened. She stepped closer, and before Sophie could react, she reached out. Her fingers were warm and slightly rough as they brushed the scar above Sophie’s eyebrow, a touch so fleeting and gentle it was barely there. “Not just beautiful,” Kat murmured, her voice a low hum in the quiet room. “But so kind, too.”
The touch sent a startling jolt through Sophie’s system. It wasn’t sexual, not quite. It was evaluating, appreciative, intensely personal. She felt her skin prickle where Kat’s fingers had been.
“Don’t get used to it,” Sophie managed, aiming for sarcasm and landing somewhere near breathless.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Kat said, her smile returning to its easier, brighter version. “Okay. Sharing it is. I’ll change in the bathroom.”
She grabbed her backpack and disappeared into the sleek, dark-walled bathroom. Sophie stood for a moment in the centre of the room, the ghost of the touch on her brow. She heard the click of the lock, then the rush of water in the sink. She quickly changed into her own sleep clothes—the soft, faded t-shirt and the loose grey shorts that hit mid-thigh. She was folding her jeans when Kat emerged.
Kat had changed into a thin, spaghetti-strap camisole the colour of slate, and tiny, black silk shorts. The outfit was simple, devastatingly so. It revealed the powerful, graceful lines of her shoulders and arms, the curve of her hips, the long, defined muscles of her legs. The casual elegance of it, the unstated confidence, made Sophie suddenly aware of her own practical, boyish pyjamas. Kat’s skin seemed to glow in the diffused light from the garden.
“Hope the midnight uniform is acceptable,” Kat said, placing her folded sweats on a chair.
“It’s… hot,” Sophie said, the word slipping out before her internal censor could catch it. It was just a factual observation. It hung in the air between them.
Kat’s eyes travelled over Sophie’s frame, from her bare legs to the thin cotton of her shirt. A slow, appreciative smile touched her lips. “Yours isn’t so bad either. I’m a fan of the whole ‘just stole it from someone’s drawer’ vibe. Very authentic.”
Sophie felt a flush creep up her neck. “They’re comfortable.”
“I bet.” Kat moved to the futon and pulled back the thick duvet. “Which side?”
“I don’t care.”
“Wall side. Protects me from monsters.” Kat slid in on the side closest to the sliding garden door, leaving Sophie the side nearer the room. Sophie turned off the main light, plunging the room into the soft, blue-green gloom from the garden lights. She slipped under the duvet, putting a foot of careful space between her body and Kat’s.
The bed was wide, but not infinite. She was hyper-aware of Kat’s presence; the heat radiating from her, the faint, clean scent of her soap—something with grapefruit and cedar. They lay on their backs, staring up at the shadowed ceiling.
“This is weirder than I thought it would be,” Kat said into the darkness.
“I mean the silence. We were talking fine before. Now it’s like a first date that’s gone horribly wrong.”
Sophie let out a short laugh. “Is that what this is?”
“I don’t know. You bought me a beer and invited me back to your place. The timeline checks out.” Kat turned her head on the pillow. Sophie could feel the weight of her gaze. “So, first-date rules. Ask me something.”
Sophie thought. The usual questions—where are you from, what have you been in—felt trite, a script. “What’s the darkest, weirdest thing you’ve said in your sleep?”
Kat chuckled, a warm sound in the dark. “Direct. I like it. Once, according to a very terrified ex, I sat bolt upright and said, ‘The water in the walls is not for drinking.’ Clear as day. Then laid back down.”
A chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning traced Sophie’s spine. “That’s horrifying.”
“Right? He broke up with me a week later. Couldn’t handle the midnight prophecies.” She shifted, turning onto her side to face Sophie, tucking one hand under her cheek. The movement brought her closer. “My turn. That scar. How’d you get it?”
Sophie’s fingers instinctively went to the small, raised line above her eyebrow. “Rose,” she said simply. “We were nine. Playing pirates in her backyard. She was the captain, I was the mutinous first mate. She shoved me off the ‘plank’—which was a gardening bench—and I caught my face on the corner of a terracotta pot. Seven stitches. She cried more than I did.”
The memory was so vivid she could almost smell the cut grass and feel the sting of the antiseptic. It was a story she used to tell with laughter. Now it felt like a fossil, evidence of a world that had been buried.
“A pre-emptive strike,” Kat murmured. “She marked you early.”
“It was an accident.”
“Maybe.” Kat was quiet for a moment. “The body keeps score, you know? Every betrayal, every loss. It etches itself right into the skin, into the way you hold your shoulders. Yours is just more literal.”
Sophie turned her head. In the dim light, Kat’s features were softened, her eyes dark pools. “What’s etched into you?”
Kat’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted behind her eyes, a shutter closing. “Oh, the usual catalogue of disappointments. But mine are all on the inside. More of a chronic, low-grade ache.” Her voice was light, but the dismissal was absolute. She changed the subject. “You’re tense. Your shoulder is practically up by your ear.”
Sophie hadn’t even realized. She consciously let her shoulders drop, sinking deeper into the mattress.
“Here,” Kat said softly.
Her hand came out from under the duvet. Not touching Sophie’s face this time, but her arm. Her fingers traced a path from the sharp knob of Sophie’s wrist, up the sensitive skin of her inner forearm, a slow, deliberate journey. Her touch was electric, explorative. It wasn’t a clinical touch, nor was it explicitly demanding. It was erotic in its pure, simple focus on sensation, on the geography of skin and bone.
Sophie’s breath hitched. She didn’t move.
“See?” Kat whispered, her fingers now drawing light circles on the soft skin inside Sophie’s elbow. “The body keeps score. So many little lines. So much tension right here.” Her thumb pressed gently into the muscle of Sophie’s forearm, and a shocking wave of relief and pleasure unspooled there.
Sophie’s skin felt alive, humming. The careful distance between their bodies under the covers had collapsed without either of them moving. The air was thick, charged with a profound and quiet intimacy. This wasn’t the prelude to sex; it was something else, a communication that bypassed words entirely. An acknowledgment of the physical fact of each other, here, in this shared dark.
“Your skin is incredible,” Kat said, her voice barely a breath. Her fingers slid higher, over the curve of Sophie’s bicep, the touch feather-light yet profoundly felt. “Like cool marble. But alive.”
Sophie found her own hand moving. It rose from her side, as if of its own volition, and her fingertips came to rest on Kat’s hip, just above the hem of her silk shorts. The fabric was impossibly smooth, the warmth of Kat’s body beneath it radiating through. She felt the solid, athletic curve of her, the hint of pelvic bone. “Yours is… warm,” she managed, the description utterly inadequate.
Kat’s answering hum was a vibration Sophie felt through her fingertips. Kat’s hand had moved to Sophie’s shoulder now, her palm resting in the hollow of her collarbone, her thumb stroking the side of her neck. It was a claiming sort of touch, but a gentle one. A test.
They stayed like that for a long moment, a circuit of touch completed in the dark: Sophie’s hand on Kat’s hip, Kat’s hand on Sophie’s neck. The tension wasn’t sexual hunger, not purely. It was the dizzying thrill of a border being crossed without a passport, of finding a moment of understanding in the medium of the body. It was the silence after a secret has been told, when words are no longer necessary.
Then, slowly, Kat withdrew her hand. She let it fall back to the space between them, but she didn’t move her body away. The heat of her remained.
“We should sleep,” Kat said, her voice rough at the edges.
“Yeah.”
Sophie didn’t remove her hand from Kat’s hip. Not right away. She left it there for another heartbeat, feeling the steady rise and fall of Kat’s breath, committing the sensation to memory—the smooth silk, the firm flesh, the startling reality of her.
Finally, she let her arm relax, her hand coming to rest on her own stomach. The space between them reformed, but it was a different space now. It was charged. Known.
Sophie lay on her back, staring into the dark. Her skin still tingled where Kat had touched her. The heavy stone of betrayal in her ribs was still there, but for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t the only thing she could feel. There was a lightness in her chest, a buzzing in her limbs. The profound, simple comfort of another human being’s warmth beside her, the unspoken agreement in that touch.
She felt good with Kat next to her. The complexity of it, the potential danger of it, was real. But in this silent, moonlit room, the physical truth of it was simple, and it was a relief. She listened to Kat’s breathing gradually even out into sleep, and eventually, her own eyes closed, lulled not by the silence, but by the lingering, palpable echo of the exchange that had just passed between them in the dark.