I don't know how long I've been standing here. I can't remember when I came to this garden. I don't even know how long it's been since the Rainbow Bridge fell. Days, years--but you're not going anywhere, and neither am I. Fuuma left some time ago, and for all I know Tokyo's burning now, being demolished block by block. All those people who'd been brave enough to remain are probably dying now, and I can't remember how long it's been since I cared.

It caught me by surprise, a little...the transformation. The loss, the pain, the cold, even the eye; I didn't think to see them as you must have. You've crushed and created me, and...and I think I'm beginning to understand why. It isn't what I'd thought it was, but you always did that to me: catching me off-guard just to see me stumble. I used to think you enjoyed manipulating me that way, but I've seen you far more pleased with something as simple as innocent blood on your hands.

It should have been mine...but then, I'm far from innocent these days, aren't I.

The pentagrams haven't gone away--I'm still marked. Still yours. I don't wear the gloves now; more the shame, to be prey unworthy of killing, more the horror to feel your sluggish pulse, slick heat darkening my hands...yes, I remember that. I just don't know how long I've been thinking it. The blood's gone from my clothing now, and I can't catch the scent of it on my hands anymore--except when I'm here, drowning in sakura. I don't want to leave, I want to bury myself here as I would have then. I wanted to crawl inside your body and the dark and the heat and the blood and never come out again...but by the time I could move, it had all collapsed and you were gone.

The marks on my hands match those of the canister held cold against my chest, and I struggle not to be sick here. I can't recall the last time I ate, but it feels like it must have been a long time ago and that helps. I won't disrespect this ground, even as its spirits pull further away from me. They know that I don't belong here.

I belong with you.

I have to be careful not to drop the canister as my body's heaves subside and I catch my breath. The pentagrams are burning in my skin, and I know Fuuma wasn't lying when he said this would give me your power. The Sakurazuka are an old line, and power and duty must be passed on--to the one that kills the Sakurazukamori. I know...I knew. I can feel the darkness in me spreading, and I could fight it. Even if I couldn't win, I could fight it, pull myself back and call on all the power of the Sumeragi clan to purify myself again...but why?

I have something now that I didn't before: I have a choice, and I can count on Kamui and the others to persevere, to save this world and the innocents in it...or I can join this new power in me and become the assassin, now that I have more experience in killing. It's a betrayal of my line, my grandmother, of Hokuto--but I wasn't avenging her, not really. I just...I just wanted to follow her. After all, you agreed to kill her, took her away from me; and she, in her way, took you away from me as well. That leaves me very alone now, standing amidst the sakura blossoms with my pentagrams and dead eye and the feel of another man's blood staining my hands.

I have to wonder how long this preparation has been going on, but it doesn't matter now; whatever path brought me here, it's my choice the way I leave. Perhaps one day Tokyo can be at peace again, alive and whole, and I can return to what I'd been, taking odd jobs by fax and helping ease others' suffering. If I turn the other way, Kamui will have to kill me--and if he fails, I'll still die...even if I take the world with me.

...I'm not sure just how long my heart's been dead; but if this is what it means to fulfill your wish, Seishirou-san...

So be it.