The city passed by in blurred streaks of light.
Streetlamps. Neon signs. Traffic signals bleeding together through rain-streaked windows.
Ren sat in the back seat, staring at his hands.
Blood.
Dried blood hiding beneath his fingernails. Smeared across his palms. Staining the bandages Aoi had wrapped around his knuckles—how long ago had that been? Yesterday? A lifetime?
Not all of it was his.
Some of it was Aoi's. From when he'd pressed his jacket against her head wound. From when he'd held her good hand while they waited for the ambulance.
Some were from the bikers'. From the punches. The elbow strikes. The brutal, desperate violence.
"Whose blood is this? "
"How much of it is mine? "
"How much belongs to people I hurt? "
His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Matsuno sat beside him, silent. Watching.
