Solace

*Tokyo, 1953

I’m on my chair, hot pot by my table and my mistress, Ahyeon, still sleeping soundly on my bed.

This morning’s paper just arrived. That boy Yoshiro from downstairs tossed it onto my balcony like always—bad aim, nearly knocking over my ashtray. I opened the paper slowly, creases sharp against my fingers, and there it was in bold print: *Armistice Signed, Korea Divided at 38th Parallel.*

I exhaled smoke through my nose, watching it curl toward the ceiling. Ahyeon shifted under the thin sheet behind me, her bare shoulder peeking out, the curve of it smooth and warm in the dim light.

I thought, Gosh, has it really been that long since I took this girl with me?

She was a refugee fleeing the war, too young to remember how she ended up in Tokyo, at the Hamura brothel of all places, my regular stop.

I thought, Fuck! I couldn’t get enough of this girl! Her Japanese might be broken. But every minute with her was every penny worth spent! And now, with the war ending, I wondered if she’d want to go back.

“Daddy…”

I looked up to find her eyes staring back at me, half-lidded and sleepy, her dark hair tangled against the pillow. She stretched with a kitten-like yawn, the sheet slipping further down her waist—no shame in her nakedness, not anymore.

“Anything interesting on the news?” she asked, her accent thick as honey as she got up.

“You might want to look at this…” I gestured to her.

Ahyeon shuffled forward, wrapping the sheet around herself loosely—not out of modesty, but because the morning sun was still cool. She peered over my shoulder, her breath warm against my neck, then froze. Her fingers dug into my arm lightly as she read the headline. I could feel her heartbeat through her skin, rapid like a sparrow’s.

“So is it over?” She whispered the words, like she was afraid the paper might bite her if she spoke too loud. The sheet slipped further as she leaned in, those big ass titties of hers pressing against my shoulder.

“I have no idea. It says it’s an armistice. A stalemate.” I replied.

“I don’t know what kind of deal the Americans made with the Chinese… Or the Russians… Those words don’t sound like surrender…” I added.

The memory of the war was still with me, a hole in my hand courtesy of Doolittle himself! Yeah! That same Doolittle that led that raid in ‘42.

I was shot down sometime before the war ended, barely making it out of my Zero when I crash landed on the shore. I managed to recover from that and was ready to fly again. But on the day I was scheduled for another bombing run, the Americans dropped the bomb on Hiroshima, and the Emperor surrendered a few days later.

That announcement still struck me to this day, all of that—for nothing. The Emperor’s voice crackled over the radio, so unlike the god we were told he was. Just a man, surrendering. The message was clear. We were done.

But this new one, a war between ideologies that tore a nation apart, the message didn’t look promising. The communists were still around and so were the capitalists. I know where my country stands, but Ahyeon’s mere silence clouded my thoughts.

She was still there, her young yet big tits squishing my shoulder as she kept her gaze on the article, perhaps trying to read or understand every single word.

“Still thinking about going back?” I couldn’t help but wonder.

I felt the grip on my arm tighten suddenly—not painful, just present—as she exhaled against my neck.

“Daddy,” she murmured, “where would I go?”

There was no bitterness, just the quiet resignation of a girl who’d known too much war too young. The sheet slid down further, pooling at her hips, but she didn’t bother pulling it back up.

“There’s nothing left for me, Daddy… I have nothing left…” She added, pressing her lips against my shoulder—not a kiss, just an anchor.

Her fingers traced the scar on my hand, the one from Doolittle’s bullet, as if she could read the war in its ridges. The sheet finally gave up, sliding to the floor with a whisper, leaving her bare against me.

Slowly, she struts her way towards my front, her naked frame, albeit the top part of it shining brightly under the morning sky, her legs simply wrapped in a lacy black panty that barely holds anything in. She leans in closer, her hand caressing my cheeks, as I stare back into her eyes—eyes that seemed to have seen war, yet still held innocence and tenderness.

“Daddy…” she murmurs, her lips curling into a playful smile.

“You take care of me better than any home ever could.” Her fingers trace my jawline, lingering a little too long, like she’s memorizing the shape of me.

“You’re not saying that just to impress me, are you?” I couldn’t help but tease, knowing girls like her were opportunistic in the wrong ways.

Her grin widened as she straddled my lap, pressing her thighs against me. The smell of her—a mix of sleep and that cheap rose perfume she loved—filled the space between us.

“No, Daddy,” she purred, “you know I don’t lie. Not to you.” Her hips shifted, deliberate, and I grunted when she grounded against me, her panties already damp through the thin fabric.

The newspaper crinkled beneath my fingers, forgotten. The war—any war—felt distant when she moved like this, her breath hitching as she rolled her hips again, slow and teasing. Her fingers tangled in my hair, tugging just hard enough to make me groan.

“F-Fuck… I can’t… Afford to keep spending on you… F-Forever, you know…” I warned her, or at least I tried to.

I’m barely getting by just to have her on my bed each week! Yet here she was—smirking, grinding down on my lap like she owned me, which in some way she did! Her fingers slid down my chest, nails dragging lightly over my chest before settling on my shorts.

“Do you really want me to leave?” She tilted her head, her thumb hooking into the waistband of my shorts, pulling just enough to make my breath catch.

“Would you stay if I told you I have nothing?” I countered back.

And that was when she stopped. I could see it already, the doubt of a refugee who knew the cost of belonging—how quickly a body could become currency. Her fingers stilled against my shorts, her smirk softening into something fragile.

“I don’t need money to stay,” she said quietly, her hips still pressed flush against mine.

“I just need you.” The words were too raw, too honest for a girl who was taught to charge by the hour.

“I feel safe when I’m with you… I eat a lot more when I’m with you… I sleep better when I’m with you…” Ahyeon whispered, her voice cracking as she pressed her forehead against mine.

“You’re more than a client to me, Daddy… When I’m with you, I’m given hope that there are still good people out there…”

When she said that, I thought a part of me died. Once upon a time I flew around her country’s skies while my colleagues committed crimes against her people—yet here she was clinging to me like I was the only good thing left in this rotten world. My fingers tightened around her waist, pressing into soft skin as she exhaled against my lips, warm and sweet like stolen candy.

Ahyeon laughed suddenly—a small, broken sound—as she dragged her fingers through my stubble. “You look like you’re about to cry,” she teased, but her eyes were wet too.

“I-I mean… It’s just that I-… I have never received that kind of compliment before…” I explained.

My life was the war, and all the lives I took in the name of our empire. But to hear her say that—like I was something worth keeping-made my chest ache. The morning sun caught the tears clinging to her lashes, turning them into tiny prisms. I didn’t deserve this. Not after the things I’d done. Not when she should’ve spat in my face instead of grinding against my lap like I was her salvation.

“Now tell me, Daddy… What am I to you?” She asked, her voice barely above a whisper, lips brushing mine with each word.

The weight of her question hung between us—heavy, dangerous. I could lie, could call her my mistress, my toy, something disposable. But her fingers trembled against my chest, betraying how much she needed the truth.

“Everything…” I managed to choke out before her lips crashed into mine—soft but insistent, tasting of sleep and desperation.

Her hands clutched the front of my top like she was drowning, pulling me closer until the newspaper fell on the floor. I could feel her heartbeat through her skin—wild and erratic—as she deepened the kiss, her tongue sliding against mine with a hunger that had nothing to do with lust. The faint taste of morning tea lingered on her lips, mixing with the salt of tears neither of us would acknowledge.