The photograph. His father at the hospital. "What?"
"It was not wholly intentional," Naoto says. "And was justifiable. Following your injury, you were disoriented—I thought I should gradually ease you back into routine, first."
The knives. "That worked out," Yousuke snarks.
Naoto flinches again. Fingers his collar. "I meant well—but that excuses little, especially considering the length I kept you unaware." His eyes turn low again, and Yousuke feels a spark of indignation: What do you have to mope about—you're not the amnesiac—
But it drains, just as suddenly.
I've been running, too.
"So why?" he asks.
