Iron bars floated black against the night sky. Mihara sat on the edge of the bed, gazing out the window. The waterfront warehouse district. Rusted steel frames. Orange lights glowing in the distance. In this room with its exposed concrete walls, only the window connected to the outside world. But that window had bars fitted into it. She surveyed the room. One pipe bed. One mirror. A sink. That was all. The shared shower room was down the hall. A heavy bag sat in the corner of the room, its leather surface worn and tattered. The marks of someone pounding it for a long time. (Is this my place?) Mihara thought so. But it didn't feel like "mine." This belonged to the promotion. Three thousand yen was deducted from her earnings each month, and in exchange she was given the right to live in this room. She was free to go out—except the day before a match, when she was confined. Tomorrow was a match, so she couldn't leave tonight. And besides. What would happen if she left without permi