Japan, 1931

It felt very much like spring in the front yard of the traditional Japanese house. A single bird sang from somewhere in the distance, and the sweet fragrance of plum blossoms filled the air. The estate had all the markings of a family living with status, from the meticulously maintained garden to the family crest carved into the outdoor eaves. 

It was Henry’s fourth year of being nineteen and his twenty-fifth year since birth, but he still felt like a child following behind his benefactor and adoptive father, Dr. Herschel, as the housekeeper led them inside to meet the master. 

He wasn’t nervous, but he was wary. Wary of the beauty of this home. Wary of the sudden invite to vacation in a foreign country. Wary of being led along to meet someone “from old times.” Wary of whether today would be the day Dr. Herschel revealed that he had taken Henry in not to make amends but to cultivate a tool. 

Just as the housekeeper moved to announce their presence before a set of shoji doors, the doors slid open to reveal an older Japanese man in a three piece suit and round spectacles. He smiled at Dr. Herschel who smiled back as if they shared some secret between them. 

“I am delighted to have you visit,” the Master of the house said in accented English. “Mr. William Herschel.” They shook hands with notably strong grips and then glanced at Henry.

“My son, Henry,” Dr. Herschel introduced. 

Henry nodded politely and shook the man’s hand.

“Henry, this is Dr. Takeshiro Sugiyama.”

Dr. Sugiyama’s gaze scanned Henry’s face and body. A trace of pity flashed through his briefly fallen smile. He turned back to Dr. Herschel. 

“Mr. William, you have raised a fine young man. From appearance and intellect my son can compete, but he lacks the discipline and poise Young Master Henry exudes.”

Dr. Herschel shook his head in humility but before he could speak anything of Dr. Sugiyama‘s son, the other man spoke to Henry.

“My son Kenjiro is upstairs. I think he may benefit from a chat with an upstanding peer.” 

Henry glanced at Dr. Herschel and received an short nod, so bowed and excused himself. Another servant came quickly to escort him upstairs. Glimpsing over his shoulder, he saw Dr. Sugiyama gesturing Dr. Herschel towards a sofa in the Western-style parlor. Their secretive grins were back. 

Henry followed the servant up the stairs and to a solid fusuma door. Without saying a word, she bent her waist then departed, leaving the door half ajar. Henry assumed that Kenjiro Sugiyama must be inside and decided to enter.

Only after sliding open the door did he realize the bird song he had heard from the yard was even clearer from this room. Wondering if young Kenjiro kept a pet, he stepped inside and was met with a scene worthy of a painting.

Dressed in a navy colored men’s kimono was a masculine but youthful figure wistfully reclining over the open window’s sill. In front of the figure were a tea set and writing materials atop a Japanese tea table. Two walls were lined with countless manuscripts and one corner spared room for a floor-level writing desk. 

The single window framed a sea of clouds and rustling green leaves. Nestled between the foliage, perched upon a branch was the feathered vocalist. 

Alone, it was a pleasantly aesthetic sight. But the figure morphed the scene into something new. Suddenly this cozy, scholarly room became a prison for beauty and blockade to freedom. This newly implanted idea in Henry’s head only became stronger when the figure finally spared his visitor a glance. 

Beauty standards around the world varied without a doubt, though there were certainly universalities. Henry did not know whether Kenjiro surpassed the standards in Japan or would meet the standards in his own England. With his delicately carved features and rebellious posture, though, Henry lacked any doubt on his own view. Kenjiro was beautiful. 

After a jolt of envy came a buzz of admiration. Gripping his hat to his chest, Henry stepped forward and introduced himself.

“Hello, I’m Henry Herschel. My father, Dr. William Herschel, and your father are old colleagues. I hope we can get along as well.”

Kenjiro’s dark, emotionless eyes examined Henry just the way Dr. Sugiyama had. Luckily, none of that curious pity showed itself. 

Then Kenjiro spoke, “Father?”

His voice was deep and smooth; Henry was distractedly captivated and took a while to react. He raised an eyebrow and leaned forward but was interrupted. 

“Is he really your father?”

It was hard not to be taken aback, getting this question from a stranger. 

Kenjiro leaned his back against the window and tilted his head to the side, eyes steadily set on Henry who just awkwardly fidgeted with his hat. Henry usually had no problem interacting with peers of his biological age. But something about Kenjiro made him feel lost, beside himself, and nervous. 

Possibly noticing Henry’s distress, Kenjiro smiled gently, scooted towards the table and began to pour a second cup of tea. 

“Please sit. The tea is fresh; it was brought up right when you arrived. I have been waiting for you.”

“Waiting for me?” Henry blurted at he took a seat.

“To be more specific, I was told another cursed child would be visiting. It is my first time meeting another.” 

Henry’s gaze shot up from his tea cup to meet Kenjiro whose eyes contained a hint of jeering. Indeed, Henry was sure now, this room was a cage. 

Taking a gulp of tea with no attention to etiquette, Kenjiro raised an eyebrow. “It could not be…. Is it possible that you did not know?” 

Henry shook his head. “I was certain their meeting was related to The Project. It just never occurred to me that Dr. Sugiyama’s own child—“

“Is he really your father?”

At the repeat of this question, Henry finally understood. Due to his own naivety, their conversation up to now had been a chicken talking to a duck. Kenjiro had overestimated his intelligence. 

Flushing with embarrassment, Henry answered, “We aren’t tied by blood. Wasn't The Project done on only orphans? Could it be… in your country…”

“What do you think about it? Being saved by the same person who cursed you?”

Henry pursed his lips briefly. “Dr. Herschel… I mean, Father was never fully supportive of the experiment and yearned to leave it once he discovered the cursed effects. I don’t resent him for his complacency; especially since he was under threat. He has righted his wrongs.”

“Do you truly believe that?”

Henry remained gazing at his tea cup. Even in his periphery he could see the disdain and disgust in those seemingly restrained eyes. He didn’t want to meet it head on.

“Why you? He knows me too well.” Kenjiro leaned forward across the table towards Henry, a dark smirk forming on his lips. In a low serpent-like voice, he said, “How much longer are you going to put on airs?” 

This unintentionally seductive query was like a slap in the face to Henry. The tension fell from his muscles and he raised his head to meet Kenjiro’s gaze.

“Then allow me to return to myself,” he stated with all the composure he’d lost. “Young Master Kenjiro, you’re surprisingly immature. But more than that, has anyone ever told you you’re beautiful?” 

Now Kenjiro was the one to be caught off guard. He blinked several times as he collapsed back into his seat. Then, he burst into laughter. 

Henry quietly watched, calm above the table. But under the table, his fingers picked with the rim of the hat in his lap, and behind his ribs, his heart raced at witnessing such a genuine smile for the first time. 

He swallowed down his awe. “I hope you’ll forgive my impudence. I don’t mean anything strange by that.”

Kenjiro reached into a box by the window and pulled out a pipe, reclining again. Smiling crookedly and peering at Henry, he replied in that low, gritty voice. “Why? Would you like to be the first?” 

Henry desperately suppressed his blush. “I don’t have any strange intentions.”

Kenjiro just let out a short chuckle. 

“I might have forgotten myself a bit after witnessing Young Master Kenjiro’s charm. I am grateful to Dr. Herschel. But I’d be a fool to trust him completely.”

Taking the pipe out of his mouth, Kenjiro place it back into its box, never even having added tobacco. He explained, “That man is my real father. It is thanks to him that the project developed and thanks to him that it ended and the cursed children were freed. Only the most celebrated philosophers could begin to understand the psychology of desperation and delusion in trying to cancel out your most evil actions. Today, they are meeting for the first time in decades and introducing both their cursed sons to one another. What do you think?”

Henry was honest. “I think the true cultivation is about to begin. And that I may be harmed under the guise of ethical science. I knew my life would never be my own. But I’d sooner die than repeat the mistakes of the men who created and raised us. As such is the case, they’ll have my full cooperation unless… or until that line is crossed.”

Kenjiro had no apparent reaction to Henry’s speech. After a while of staring, he leaned back to gaze out of the window, taking the same position he’d had when Henry first entered. At some point, the bird had flown off. 

“Then I’ll follow by your side. Because I want to see the world; its beauty and its Hell.”

Taking a sip of tea, Henry thought to himself, only the most celebrated psychologists could understand the complex psyche of a caged child who’d lived long enough to be a man.

“The answer is no.”

“Pardon?”

“No one has ever told me I am beautiful.” Without changing his position against the window, Kenjiro rotated his head against his arm so that his eyes could meet Henry’s. “You are the first.”