They could have played cat and mouse in these narrow corridors of books. Hannya would have recommended it. He would have had the advantage.

Aoshi turns his head, sees white paper on the ground. Its edges are hard, its corners smooth. Perfect.

He is neither—nothing more than a bundle of weaknesses; aching, redly disjointed. The bleeding from his lip slows, stops, tastes salty; he thinks of salt-tears on a pale face.

He closes his eyes and imagines hers open. Relives the moment he turned away. Tastes for the first time the wrongness of his deeds.

He hurts. He stands regardless.