Chapter 1

To any passerby, he looks as though he knows exactly where he is going. After all, he walks with his head forward, while making quick purposeful strides. His hands are fisted inside of the pockets of his finely tailored trousers. But if one pays careful attention, they will notice how his golden eyes dart to and fro in search of their destination.

He struggles to keep his eyes open amid the torrential downpour. It doesn't help that he can't see out of his left eye. It leaves him wholly reliant upon on his right. Having one operable eye wasn't all that bad though. He'd uncovered a couple of delightful implications resulting from the partial vision loss. Exhibit A: not having to see Nanahara's deplorable face in its totality (his visage was truly unsightly, especially when he was panicked and obnoxiously emotional). Exhibit B: having a convenient excuse for his reckless driving ('Oh pardon me officer, I didn't see that pedestrian crossing because, you see, I'm blind as a bat in my right eye'-this didn't happen-yet).

And most importantly, Exhibit C: the constant companionship of dusk irrespective of time and earth's orbit. Every waking moment felt like his fingers were toying with a *Shinigami's. Gripping the Shinigami's hand for a fleeting moment when he felt tempted to act on his macabre whims and pulling back just as brusquely when he was able to a hold of himself. To someone who's not too fond of living, but also not too fond of dying, this was certainly a satisfying equilibrium.

Today though, he would have liked the utility of both of his eyes for the world has been burnished in a hideous gray at the behest of mother nature. Save for the Shinjuku lights made up of neon blues, yellows, and whites. The colors pop as he pushes his way through the crowded pathway.

He knows he should take refuge within a doorway or under a shop's roof. No one would mind. They too realize that a monsoon is a tenacious beast. It has unleashed a heavy, and steady torrent. It would be prudent indeed to rest for a couple of minutes but mounting anxiety won't allow him.

He uses his forearm as a windshield and maintains his stride. He should have heeded Nanahara's advise on taking that umbrella. But he was worried that the umbrella would further tapper his poor vision; this is something he can't risk. Especially since he's searching for a face that he hasn't seen in nearly four years. Like a skittering Gerridae, his eyes jump from face to face in hopes of catching a glimpse of the one he longs to see.

He wonders how Doumeki looks now. Whether the scars on his face have long waned. If the scars have become imprints of sorts on his stony face. He hopes for the latter. Markings left behind by pain are almost always more meaningful than ones left by love. They help us retain an accurate account of a person's character. The thought brings him to a halt. Why is it that love never marks us as profoundly and physically as pain or hate? Perhaps because love's touch is supple and cursory from the get-go. And when it does perish, its almost as if it was a phantasm conjured up of deluded fantasies and expectations.

He resumes his search, waiving the thought away. He hopes that Doumeki still wears the wounds ultimately caused by his contrived mind. It's the only thing he was able to ever give him during their brief and turbulent time together. It's the only thing Doumeki can remember him by.

He can't recall for certain under what circumstances he came to inflict the first scar on Doumeki, but he remembers the second one clearly.

Ribbons of smoke wafted from the barrel of the gun as Doumeki doubled over from the searing pain shooting from the wound on his hip.

He only allowed himself a second to regard Doumeki-just to make sure that he hadn't fatally wounded him. He was a bad shot and always had been. That's why his hired men took care of this part of the business.

"You won't die from just that right." It was supposed come out sounding callous but the trepidation which shook his voice was gratingly palpable. An unexpected fury knotted his guts.

He wanted shove his face before Doumeki's and holler, spittle and all,: "Look at what you've made me do, you dunce! Why couldn't you just fucking leave me be like I asked you to? Why do you want me to hurt you? Fuck! Look at this mess! Are you happy now? Now do you understand how much I can't be with you? How much I don't want to be with you? You goddamn idiot!" He wished he could also round house kick Doumeki just to drive home his point. But now wasn't the time for such petty indulgences. Christ, he had shot the man not once but twice in the span of four minutes.

He saw Doumeki struggle to raise his hand to reach out to him. He couldn't help but marvel at the giant's resolve. Was it really resolve? No, it paralleled something more pitiful-like prayer. Like a man marshalling his last bit of energy in a vain effort to ward off the awful inexorability of his end.

"Hurry up and go see a doctor." He said coolly albeit through clenched teeth.

"Boss." Doumeki pleaded with Yashiro. Only a miracle would stop Yashiro from leaving and right now he needed one more than ever. If only he could get up and grab a hold of him. But before he could act, he heard Yashiro slam the car door shut and speed away into the quiet rain.

Notes:

*Shinigami: God of Death in Japanese religion and culture