There was no Sakuraiji Ukyou in the visitor logs for either Wakayama hospital.

But there was a Dr. Akiyama representing the same company, down in the logs at both places for a drug consultation. There wasn't a complete record of sign-ins from related cases, but in the few that had been deemed relevant enough to be included with their files, Akiyama's name was present there as well.

"You didn't tell the Gushoushin where we were, did you?" Hisoka asked when Natsume relayed him the findings from his cell phone's e-mail.

"No. You asked me not to." Natsume's eyes narrowed behind his glasses. "Which I'm still not sure is a great idea. Didn't you say Tatsumi wanted us to have backup if we did something like this?"

"We'll call it in if and when we actually find something that may be useful," Hisoka told him. But even he wasn't sure where this urge to sneak around under his colleagues' noses arose from. I have to make up for my time gone, he told himself; but that didn't fully explain it.

They had snuck by the guards at the front desk of Sakuraiji Pharmaceuticals' main lab in Tokyo, deploying invisibility. The floor that housed Ukyou's office and those of her team was empty and dark when they arrived—perhaps with their boss absent, no one felt motivated enough to stay and burn the midnight oil—only the animals in their cages making noise when the shinigamis' flashlight beams fell across them.

They found Akiyama's office. There were cabinets sparsely filled with files, some reference books and awards on the shelves, two potted orchids and a hot-water dispenser for tea, but surprisingly little beyond that. Even her desk drawers had been cleaned out of everything but pens and notepads, as if she were getting ready to move to a different office. Or actively trying to hide something. "The workings of a paranoid mind," Natsume said half to himself as he checked one of the orchids for hidden microphones. But to Hisoka, it reeked more of healthy caution.

He tried the door of Sakuraiji's office. "Locked." But a simple charm was enough to fix that.

The place was an organized mess of paperwork and equipment. About what one might expect if its occupant had been gone for a month. Yet someone was clearly coming by regularly. The rabbits in cages along one wall were being fed and watered. The printouts on the tops of the stacks showed dates within the last month—after Ukyou's disappearance. "What are the chances Akiyama has the key to this office?" Hisoka said as he tried to make sense of some of the data.

The light of a small refrigerator unit flooded the room from behind him.

"Whoa," said Natsume as he bent over it. "I think we found what we were looking for."

Inside were boxes stacked on top of boxes full of small vials, not unlike those containing vaccine. "Careful!" Hisoka hissed as Natsume removed one of the boxes, picking up one of the vials inside with the corner of a handkerchief.

His partner chuckled. "Relax. It's not like it's radioactive. . . . I think." Though he put it back quickly enough, just to be on the safe side.

The alphanumerical label on the side meant nothing to Hisoka, though he had to agree with his partner when Natsume said, "Watari would be able to make sense of this. He'd be able to tell us if this is the substance that revived our summons."

Hisoka nodded back towards the heaping desk. "The charts back there have some of the earlier cases' names and medical history on them." He sighed. "I should have put the pieces together sooner. The count told me a month ago that this company was specifically researching treatment for cancer and degenerative disease—exactly the things our cases were cured of. If we'd looked into this company then, we could have saved a lot of people a lot of suffering."

"Yeah. They would have just died of their horrible diseases, like they were going to anyway."

Hisoka couldn't tell if Natsume was being sarcastic because he disagreed with Hisoka's assessment, or because he felt the same way. Not that it made a difference. It hardly seemed like there was a right answer to be found in this whole affair. No matter what they did, those souls who had been slated for death couldn't change their fate.

"I wouldn't beat myself up over it, if I were you," Natsume said in a gentler tone when he got no response. "You couldn't be expected to remember something as minor as that after everything that happened. But we're here now, and we can put an end to this. That's all that matters." Natsume reached for his cell phone, flipping it open against his hip. "We need to call this in."

Hisoka turned back to the files, sure he was just going to dial Tatsumi or Chief Konoe. But when Natsume said, "Hey, Nonomiya, I need to get in contact with your old boss over a situation in Chijou that needs cleaning up," Hisoka flipped.

He grabbed Natsume by the arm, as though pulling the phone away from his partner's face might recall the order. "Are you nuts? We can't call Peacekeeping!"

"Because they're the enemy? We have to stop thinking like that, Kurosaki." Natsume rested the phone against his chest, though Nonomiya could probably still hear everything the two of them said. "Look, kid, I know a lot has happened while you were in rehab, so try to keep up. Enma granted both departments a second chance to go about our jobs like some of us never went AWOL, with the understanding that we start acting like we're all actually on the same side—which we are. We can't afford to mess all that good will up over some petty grudge."

Reluctantly, Hisoka let him go. In any event, he could sense that his partner's motives were true, his loyalty still to Summons, and that he saw the logical sense in his own argument. "It's Peacekeeping's job to clean stuff like this up and oversee the chain of evidence for Judgment," Natsume said. "It's a sign of good faith that we're willing to put our differences behind us if we bring them in."

"Who says we've put our differences behind us?" Hisoka grumbled, but he didn't want to argue.

"No one's saying you have to like it," Natsume said quietly to him, making an effort to be sympathetic, before he turned his attention back to Nonomiya on the other end of the line. "Yeah, still here. Have him send in a squad, and some boxes to pack all this stuff up. Maybe this will get Todoroki off our backs for a little while longer."

Hisoka supposed he should consider himself lucky that at least one of the Peacekeepers was a friend of Summons. Or had been one until not that long ago, anyway.

Todoroki had sent Kazuma and her new partner along with the evidence-gathering party, and though she and Hisoka avoided eye contact, he felt reassured by her presence. Watari, as an ostensibly neutral entity, and as the chief scientist already working the connected cases, accompanied them. Though he would have come along one way or another, Hisoka liked to think Watari's presence here aggravated Todoroki's ulcers.

Plus, it made up for the discomfort of having to make nice with Peacekeeping to watch Watari chew out the agents in greatcoats for not packing test tubes carefully enough, or attempting to throw sample analyses indiscriminately in with patient files, his accent getting more pronounced with each sentence.

He practically screamed when one man started tipping a jar back and forth to try to get a better look at the preserved animal brain inside. "The hell you think you're doing?" Watari rushed over to very delicately pry the jar from his hands. "You don't know what's in there! One little slip and we might all be exposed to some awful virus that makes you bleed from all your orifices! You really wanna take that chance? Don't 'we're already dead' me! Your shinigami body can still experience unimaginable horrors, believe you me. ARGH! I feel like I'm babysittin' a bunch of toddler monkeys can't keep their hands to themselves! Just—I dunno—go make a pot of tea or something, leave the thinking to the professionals!"

And no sooner had Watari finished with him than he was off to save another bunch of samples from the careless mitts of another useless agent.

Hisoka had to stifle a laugh. The feeling of victory was brief, however, as one of the agents, a senior in Peacekeeping named Endo whom Hisoka remembered seeing in the assault on Ukyou's house, chose that moment to come over and rub the whole situation in.

"Nice of you to invite us in on your find," he said with a smirk. "I'm surprised you decided to let us handle this, Kurosaki."

After you tried to kill us all. Hisoka could sense him thinking something to that effect. The word "traitor" came to mind, even if Endo was too professional to voice it.

"We don't have anything to hide. Our plan to find Tsuzuki first failed—" It hurt so much to say those words out loud, to one of Todoroki's men at that, but it had the desired effect. Endo believed he was sincere. "—so I don't see how it would benefit Summons to keep this a secret."

"I meant because of your partner." The smirk widened. "It's no secret Natsume hates us. Probably more than the rest of your division combined. I'm surprised he let you make the call."

"He didn't let me do anything," Hisoka said, grudgingly but feeling like he owed it to Natsume to set the record straight. "Natsume was the one who suggested bringing you guys in." Against my wishes, he did refrain from adding.

The Peacekeeper whistled. "What's the world coming to, huh? Never thought Natsume of all people would be the one to extend the olive branch. Or toss out, more like, but still."

Hisoka squared his shoulders. "He insisted it was the right thing to do. What reason would he have to hate you so much?"

The other shrugged. "Beats me. Whatever his beef is, he won't tell us. None of Peacekeeping takes him that seriously anyway. Him or that creepy-ass partner of his."

"I'm right here. If you're going to insult me, you could at least have the guts to do it to my face."

"Not you. The other one." But as he could see Hisoka had no idea what he was talking about, he thought better of what he had been about to say next. "But never mind. If you don't know about that, I'll just let you find out the hard way. Let's just say he's not worth breaking your spine over."

"My spine?"

"Bending over backwards?" Endo snorted. "Natsume isn't your friend, kid. He isn't anybody's friend. He's a freak. Just thought you ought to know."

If only the man knew who he was talking to. "Noted," Hisoka said, eager for the moment he no longer had to deal with any of Todoroki's agents.

"Excuse me! What in the world is going on here?"

With those words, all movement and conversation in the office stopped. The shinigami—all but one of whom happened to be men—turned at the unfamiliar feminine voice to find a smartly dressed woman in glasses and a French twist standing just inside the door of the department. A small suitcase on rollers sat behind her right calf, and she gripped an overnight bag that matched it in her left hand. Hisoka was almost disappointed to see she wasn't wearing a white suit and trench coat. If she had matched what he was envisioning, it would have been easy to hate her.

Across the room, Hisoka and Natsume found each other. Natsume's nod told Hisoka they were on the same page, no need for words. They converged on the woman. "Ms. Akiyama?" Natsume tried.

"It's Doctor, but yes. I am she. And who are you? Police?" Akiyama glared at the two as they came to a stop before her. No doubt wondering if they were letting teenagers join the force now, as her eyes raked over Hisoka. "Feds?"

"We're shinigami," Natsume told her plainly, "and we're here to confiscate—"

"Give me a break." Akiyama snorted at the word "shinigami," and pushed her way between the two, suitcase in tow, to address the whole crew. "No one is confiscating anything in this place before I see a court order. Is that understood? This is delicate, life-saving research that represents decades of this company's resources and hard work. Everything we do here is above board. We have very good lawyers who will tell you the same thing. I would be happy to put you in contact with them first thing in the morning."

"We're not here to arrest or serve you, Doctor," Natsume explained as he followed after her. "We don't represent the legal interests of mortal governments. But your research—if that's what you call testing an unknown substance on dying patients without their knowledge or consent—cannot be allowed to continue."

At the accusatory tone in his voice, Akiyama folded her arms over her chest, and faced Natsume squarely. Even Hisoka was surprised by his partner's clear displeasure. Natsume hadn't expressed the same feelings so strongly back in Wakayama. Of the two of them, he had been the most careful to remain unemotional.

"My research," Akiyama said, as though she were trying to win back the nobility of the word, "saves lives. So perhaps my methods are a little outside the ethical box, but countless people are allowed to die every single day while promising cures languish in decades of animal testing. No one should have to be consigned to a slow, wasting, painful death. Consigned, may I remind you, Mr. . . .?"

"Natsume."

"Mr. Natsume—without their foreknowledge or consent. Nobody asks to be put through that kind of pain. In case you haven't seen their effects already, diseases like cancer, Alzheimer's, ALS—these things may be natural, but that in no ways means we have to throw up our hands in defeat and let them happen to good people. We have the means here to save millions of lives. What I've done is only to prove that it's possible."

"What is?" It was Hisoka who spoke up, only asking the question that was burning on every Summons agent's lips. "What did you give those people to cure them?"

But Akiyama was suddenly very interested in keeping quiet. "That's proprietary information."

Beside him, Natsume snorted. His opinion wasn't difficult to discern. He thought it was all about money and fame for the doctor. But Hisoka wasn't so sure. The vibe he got was a bit different, and he wasn't about to let his theory go. He said to Akiyama, "Did Muraki Kazutaka give it to you? Tell you to try it out on people? Are you doing this for him?"

A look of surprise crossed the young doctor's face, where Hisoka had been expecting the terror of being caught out. "How do you know that name?" she said. "I haven't heard it in a long time."

"Bullshit," Natsume said under his breath.

Akiyama turned to him. "It's true. And I don't know why you think I'd be working with him. I understand Dr. Sakuraiji was a personal friend of Muraki's a decade or so back, but my understanding was that he's been dead for a few years. He was killed in a lab incident, wasn't he? A fire?"

The way she was looking at Hisoka, he had the feeling she was trying very hard to figure him out. She may not have had the benefit of his empathic skills, but that didn't stop her from trying to read meaning from his expression, his intonation.

She couldn't have known how much of an open book she allowed herself to be. While she was trying to cold read Hisoka, a whole slew of her own emotions and pathways of thought were making themselves readily available to him. He could feel her trying to reason out all the ramifications of their raid of her office, running through various options for what to do next like a lab mouse running a maze, ticking off dead ends as she went. And behind that, surrounded by a cloud of righteous anger, an impression of illness and filial love and heartbreak—clutched tight to her heart like a token, a talisman that fueled her passion. Behind the cunning facade was a hurt young woman determined to make the world a better place, whether it wanted her to or not.

Of Muraki, he didn't sense a thing, other than a lingering question brought up by his own mention.

"I believe you." He heard the words coming out of his mouth as if spoken by someone else. But it was true.

Natsume looked at him like he was a traitor. He knew better than to argue with Hisoka's talents, however. "Alright. But that doesn't change the fact that what you did was unnatural," he said to Akiyama, unwilling to budge. "Whatever you did to those people to cure them of their disease, you didn't make them better. You made them abominations."

"That doesn't make any sense." Akiyama glared at him. "I saved those people from certain death. Medical science saved them. What are you people, some kind of religious nuts who think only God can decide whether a person lives or dies?"

Patience now thread-bare, Natsume laughed as he shook his head. "Lady, you really have no idea."

"Okay!" Watari saw that as his moment to take control of the conversation. He had brought the largest Peacekeeper over with him, and at his gesture, the man in the greatcoat stepped behind Akiyama and took her elbow. "If you can just step into your office with me a moment, mum—"

"It's Doctor," Akiyama growled, and glared daggers at the Peacekeeper holding her arm in his grip.

"Doctor," Watari resumed with his winningest smile, "I'm sure I can clear this whole thing up for you in a way you'll find a bit more satisfactory. I apologize for my colleagues here, but as you may have been able to tell, they aren't as well versed in the subtleties of the scientific method as you and myself . . ."

To Hisoka's relief, Akiyama went with him willingly; and he was more than content to let the job of explaining the situation to a mortal fall to someone else.

As for Natsume, he let out a growl as soon as Akiyama was out of earshot, ran his hands irritatedly through his hair—Hisoka worried for a moment he would actually try to yank out handfuls—and stomped off grumbling about evidence not collecting itself.

Endo's reappearance by Hisoka's side wasn't any more welcome. "I wouldn't worry about the girl if I were you," he said in the same slimy voice as before. "What was her name?"

"Akiyama," Hisoka supplied.

"Right. We'll be seeing her soon enough. Cases like this, the mortal loses their life's work in an instant—sure to be a suicide case. I'd bet money on it."

Hisoka wanted to bite off the hand Endo clapped on his shoulder. But he could sense the Peacekeeper anticipating a combative reaction, and didn't want to give him any satisfaction.

He glanced over at Natsume while the Peacekeepers went about their work, and appeared to be the only one to see Natsume pick a couple of CDs from inside one evidence box, and nonchalantly slip them inside his jacket.

The conversation between Akiyama and the Summons agents was like a train wreck Imai couldn't look away from. At first because the mortal woman's outrage commanded attention, and years of training had instilled in him a cautious awareness of his surroundings. He didn't know what she might be motivated to do when faced with the destruction of her work. He had to be prepared to respond to a violent confrontation at a moment's notice.

But it was the teenage kid with the light hair who really captured his attention. I know him. I know I know him. But where he knew him from, Imai was drawing a blank. Which was weird. He didn't often run across someone with green eyes who wasn't a foreigner; he would have thought that alone would give him some clue as to why the boy looked familiar; but it was like he was trying to access a part of his brain that was password protected, and none of the passwords he tried made a difference.

His trouble must have shown on his face, because Kazuma asked him what was wrong.

Imai shook himself out of his stare. "Nothing. I think. Just this weird sense of deja vu. Like I've seen that Summons kid somewhere before. What's his name?"

"Kurosaki," Kazuma said. "Kurosaki Hisoka." But that was all the help she was going to give him.

"Huh." The name didn't ring any bells either. Well, maybe a faint tinkling, but Imai couldn't be sure whether he was just imagining it. "Don't know why I would think I'd met a dead kid before, though."

Was it just his imagination, or did a flash of worry cross Kazuma's eyes? But she replied nonchalantly: "Well, shinigami do masquerade as living people when they're investigating their cases. He usually works Kyushu. And you're from Kumamoto, right? Maybe you ran into him while he was on a case."

"Is that a bad thing? There some kind of underworld law against it?"

Kazuma shook her head. "Not unless you're trying to contact past associates or family members, or anyone who knew who you were and that you were dead. I'm sure if you saw him when you were alive, it wasn't in any context that's cause for alarm or reprimand. Could even have been something as minor as a face in the crowd."

"Yeah. I guess it could be. . . ." But Imai still wasn't sure. And, after all, he had just arrived here. His new Peacekeeping colleagues told him it wasn't unusual for it to take years to finally accept one's own death. Imai was just a rookie—something he hadn't been in a long time—with no idea whether feelings of deja vu were a common occurrence in the recently dead.

Or maybe Kazuma had hit the nail on the head, and he had merely seen Kurosaki's face in a crowd. The kid stood out just enough for his unique features to be memorable.

Then again, maybe it was something more. And not ignoring that niggling "what if" was what had made Imai a good detective in life. He wouldn't rest until he got to the bottom of the mystery. Like hearing a strain of a song he knew he knew, he just couldn't remember where he'd heard it from. . . .

"I am pleased to say that as of this morning's raid on the Sakuraiji offices, there have been no new anomalous candles fitting the pattern. It would appear that this disturbance has finally been put to bed." To put a punctuation mark on that statement, the Count shut the large tome sitting before him on the long dining table. "Your shinigami have done well, Chief Konoe."

"I'm rather proud of them." Konoe laced his fingers together as he set his hands on the table. "And now that we have Kurosaki back, things finally seem as though they're returning to normal. Almost."

"Almost," the Count echoed his agreement, in a soft and thoughtful tone. "You said you have your man Watari analyzing the cases' blood as we speak?"

"That is correct."

"And you are positive you can count on his discretion?"

The concern in the Count's voice made Konoe a tad nervous, but that was one thing he was sure of. "Watari may not have always been a Summons officer, but he's loyal to us and has been for quite some time. The scatterbrained, mad scientist routine is largely a mask hiding his real genius, though he dons it so well I'm not sure he's entirely aware of it himself. It keeps our enemies from taking him too seriously, though, and that's what matters most."

"Mm. Masks are something we can relate to."

Their conversation was interrupted only briefly by Watson's appearance, and the squeaky wheels of a tea cart the short, rotting butler was rolling along beside the table. "Can I get you anything else, Chief Konoe?" he asked in his typical warbly way that sounded as though he were trying very hard to keep his remaining teeth from falling out.

As Konoe accepted a cup of tea, he assured Watson he couldn't eat another bite, but that the roulade had been magnificent. No less than what he had come to expect from luncheons at the Castle of Candles. He suspected that even without his mentioning it there would be a box of petit fours like the ones on the cart waiting for him by the door by the time he was ready to head back to the office.

"What I'm more concerned about," the Count resumed after a bite of his own of one of the little cakes, "is how your man intends to keep the results, once he has them, from reaching Todoroki's—and, by extension, Enma's—ear. You and I both know what he will find—"

"And when he does, he will recognize the sensitive nature of it. Trust his judgment, Count."

"But how well can he lie?"

"He's more than capable of forging test results and refraining from letting anything that might incriminate Summons slip. He's kept secrets as sensitive as this before."

"Yes. Enma's secrets, not ours. What will he say to an inquisition force, if Todoroki pushes it that far, that won't come asking nicely for answers, or be satisfied by his evasions? I trust you when you say this man is a genius, Konoe—hell, I've seen what wonderful inventions he's capable of myself—but intelligence does not always aid duplicity."

That was something he need not remind Konoe of. It was a constant lament of his these days, that he could not twist facts to suit his own purposes with the same finesse and suspension of conscience with which Todoroki did. Even if that was one of the very traits that Konoe despised in his old colleague.

"And it is very important," the Count said, "that no one outside of this room, Watari, and Mr. Tatsumi learn the true nature of what was given to those patients. Not even the boy can know."

That came as a surprise. "You've been fine with bringing Kurosaki in as a confidante until now. What's different about this?"

"I fear if he knew, the knowledge would destroy what small chance we have of rescuing a favorable outcome from this entire debacle. From what you've told me, we may have already missed our chance. Kurosaki has already been weakened physically by the trauma he endured, and who can tell the extent of the damage done to his psyche, let alone to his will to fight for what's right? His faith in Tsuzuki must remain intact if we have any hope of succeeding, or I fear we could lose them both. That is why you must promise me, Konoe, that you will do everything in your power to keep the results of Watari's tests a secret from him."

The gravity of the Count's words was unmistakable, even if the mask staring back at Konoe remained unreadable. Yes, he understood the precariousness of their situation. He understood what they stood to lose if what the Count was asking of him turned out to be the wrong choice.

"You have my word," Konoe said, nevertheless, though in his heart he knew the most he could do was try. For what my word is worth. The Count didn't know Kurosaki like he did. If that boy had a question, he didn't rest until he got a satisfactory answer. And he had a knack for knowing when he was being lied to.

Archery usually did the trick for Hisoka when he wanted to clear his head after a case. Sometimes, if the case was a little harder, a little more emotional, it took a little extra effort to hold his concentration.

These last two cases, his first since being back, weren't what he would have called difficult. If anything, they had been over in the relative blink of an eye, so much so he wondered if there was something he had forgotten. Even the two souls he and Natsume had been sent to retrieve in Wakayama had been understanding in the end, despite what Hisoka felt the two shinigami deserved. Perhaps having accepted the inevitability of their deaths in the months or years before their sudden recoveries, they had not had the time to grow accustomed again to the prospect of living.

Although, perhaps their acceptance was more accurately the bittersweet acceptance of someone who knew when something was too good to be true. At very least, the two had been prepared to die. Which was something shinigami weren't as often able to say about their summons as one would predict.

And now they could all get back to hunting down ghostly possessions and demonic bargains and the odd souls who simply forgot to die. Until someone else came along with a miracle drug like Akiyama's. Though Hisoka knew he couldn't stop her from trying to cure people again—that was, if and when she ever managed to replicate her research—he wasn't worried about that happening anytime soon.

Yet something was weighing on him. He couldn't pinpoint the cause, but he felt it.

A tightness in the chest. A restlessness in the limbs.

A feeling like something was sitting on his lungs when he tried his usual breathing exercises.

He pushed through anyway, focusing on the tension of the string, the stinging of the arrow's nock between his gloved fingers—tender fingers whose calluses had failed to grow back with the new flesh. He lined up the point of his arrow with his target, willing it to stop its trembling long enough to pull off the shot.

He waited for the pause between heartbeats to release. The twang of the bow, the slap as the arrowhead buried itself in the target, were welcome and familiar after so long a hiatus.

The gap between the bull's eye and where his arrow had hit, not so much.

Hisoka sighed, willing himself not to get upset at his own inaccuracy. You're still healing, even if it doesn't feel like it. Watari said it would take a while for the muscle memory to come back. This is something you just have to accept. Work through.

"Oh," said Terazuma, when he saw Hisoka already at the range. "Sorry to interrupt."

Hisoka glanced over at his coworker, already changed into hakama and gloves, a longbow in one hand. "Not that there's much to interrupt," he said. "Besides, I could probably use the company." He hadn't had a chance to speak with Terazuma one-on-one in more than a month; this was long overdue.

Though Hisoka was too ashamed to admit out loud that he was having a hard time adjusting to Terazuma's new—or should he say old?—look. As long as Hisoka had known him, Terazuma had radiated wild masculinity, with his sharp ears and teeth and fiery eyes, and corded muscles peeking out from under his sleeves—fitting some standard of physical perfection that Hisoka couldn't help envying, knowing it was something he, trapped forever in his slight teenage body, would never achieve himself.

Now he couldn't help feeling as though his standard had been shown to be an illusion, though he knew it wasn't Terazuma's fault. Terazuma never asked for the physical traits that came along with possession by Kokushungei. For that matter, he hadn't asked to be exorcised of his shikigami and reverted back to his original, average human condition, either. That was Hisoka's fault. If I hadn't attacked with Rikugou . . .

"You use this time for meditation, don't you?" Terazuma was saying, still skeptical that Hisoka didn't mind his being there.

Hisoka had to shake himself from his guilt. "Yeah. Sometimes. Right now, though, I'm just trying to get myself back in fighting shape." Plus, Hisoka wasn't sure he wanted to be left alone with his thoughts just now.

"Oh. Right."

Terazuma stepped up to the pad beside Hisoka, rolling his shoulders and bouncing on the balls of his feet before taking a deep breath, nocking his first arrow, and calmly taking aim. When he released, his arrow flew true to its mark; but something must have felt off, judging by the disapproving sound Terazuma made. Maybe the black lion had given him invisible gifts as well, like better eyesight, or greater steadiness, which only Terazuma could feel the absence of.

"You know, they wouldn't tell us about your injuries," he said with a brief glance over his shoulder in Hisoka's direction. "Tatsumi and the chief, I mean. Watari said something about extensive burns, but I think they just wanted to respect your privacy. —Which we all get, by the way. I'm not trying to pry. I just wanted to offer an explanation for why we never came to visit you. We wanted to, but were told it wouldn't be a good idea."

Once again, Hisoka had to wonder if Watari wasn't a secret empath. The last thing Hisoka would have wanted was for his coworkers to see him in the condition he had been in. The red, twisted skin, that felt like it was being set on fire all over again whenever anything touched it. The grotesque stumps that grew a little more every day. . . . "You're right about the burns. I guess they didn't mention that I lost an arm and both legs in the explosion, either."

"No kidding!" Terazuma looked as though he weren't sure whether to be horrified or impressed. "But they came back? I mean, obviously they did. You're standing right in front of me with all your limbs. . . ."

Hisoka smiled. His coworker's voice might have sounded different without his shiki's influence, but his way of talking and choice of words were one-hundred-percent Terazuma. "They came back," Hisoka confirmed, raising his bow for another shot. "Not much different from healing from a deep cut, really. Other than the amount of recovery time." And everything else, but Hisoka didn't want to get into the specifics. "It's just that they're like a brand-new pair of shoes. They're tight and don't feel entirely like a part of me just yet."

As if to prove it, Hisoka's next shot went wide of the mark the other way. He had overcompensated for the last one.

"Case in point."

"You'll get there," Terazuma assured him. "Just like riding a horse. Or a bike. Whatever the saying is. You and me both, we've got some adjusting to do."

Though his shot didn't exactly make Hisoka believe him. Terazuma's arrow hit the outside of his target's bull's eye.

"What about you?" Hisoka ventured. "Does it feel different shooting without Kokushungei?"

"What doesn't feel different? You share a mind with someone so long, to have that suddenly ripped away from you—"

"You miss her?"

Terazuma sighed. "Yeah. There was a time I would have been glad to be rid of her—you never really get used to the extra voice in your head, sharing your every thought, everything you feel. . . . But at some point, I guess she started to feel like a part of me. Now that part isn't there anymore, and I'm left with this gaping hole in who I am, and I have no idea how I'm going to fix it."

For a moment, in his honesty, he let down his defenses, and so did Hisoka. He knew how that felt, that sense of missing a crucial piece. Terazuma's feelings seemed to flicker there near him like a warm flame, beckoning to some resonant thing inside Hisoka's own soul. He wanted to reach out and touch it—

But the fear of the pain, the knowing he was in part—in large part—responsible for it, made him draw back, made him re-erect the walls that surrounded his psyche. "Would you take her back? If you could?"

The smile that spread across Terazuma's lips made him look for a moment like a young boy nurturing a singularly happy thought. "In a heartbeat. It's weird, right? For so long I hated being possessed. I resented it. It's inconvenient, often painful, and forget about any notion of privacy. But you get used to the feeling of never being alone. You don't realize how much until that voice in your head is suddenly gone, and it's just you left."

"But you're not alone. You have Wakaba."

"Yeah." Terazuma laughed. The innocent smile turned a little bit lecherous before he could help it. "Yeah, I do have her. If there's one positive thing to come out of all of this." A faint blush colored his cheeks at some thought that wasn't as private as he would have liked, and he said, "But you weren't supposed to know about that, kid."

"Did you forget? Hard to keep secrets from an empath."

"Maybe an empath ought to mind his own damn business."

But even that chiding was good-natured. Hisoka could see just how much good it had done his coworker, to finally be able to address his affections toward Wakaba. So long as his possession by the black lion had made Terazuma literally untouchable, the two had gone to great lengths to deny the true depth of their feelings for one another, feelings which went far beyond the professional. Now both of them had a little extra spring in their step, a little extra glow in their energies, that hadn't been there before. Any fool would have seen that their relationship had only benefitted from the physical, human touch that had been denied them for so long.

It was hard not to be envious of them. "Well," Hisoka said, feeling his own face heat as he said it, "I'm happy for you both."

Terazuma snorted. "Thanks, kid."

"I mean it. You two have been through a lot together—had to put up with a lot together. If you can't be happy in death, when can you be?"

"Speaking of . . . how are you holding up, Kurosaki?"

Hisoka didn't like the sudden sobriety in his coworker's voice. Talking about his own feelings, let alone someone else's, didn't come all that naturally for Terazuma. Hisoka lowered his bow. "Like I said. My new arm and legs are a little unsteady, but with practice, I'll regain my strength—"

"I wasn't talking about your injuries."

I know. And Hisoka knew what he really meant. He just didn't want to go there. "I'm fine," he insisted, steeling his breath, his grip tensing on the bow. "I don't really think there's anything more to say at the moment."

"Right. Sure. Just like you won't talk about that night. You won't talk about him—I bet you haven't even said his name since you've been back—"

"I said, there's nothing to talk about!"

A wave of hurt and regret rushed over him at his own outburst, feelings the old Terazuma would never have let him feel. And—dare Hisoka put a name to it—sympathy?

Terazuma had spent so long defending himself wherever Tsuzuki was concerned, however, that the actual words came out like a riposte, sharp and meant to wound: "You're not the only one having a hard time with his being gone, kid. Just because Tsuzuki and me never got along that well doesn't mean I didn't respect him, or that I don't care what that Muraki creep has been doing to him this last month—"

"So, you know what I'm going through all of a sudden, is that what you're trying to say?" As if Hisoka needed a reminder of his own failure to keep Tsuzuki safe from that bastard. When he had first come back to lucidity, he'd been sure he had murdered Tsuzuki. But Watari insisted he had not, and Hisoka had had no reason to distrust him. Not when he said Muraki had taken Tsuzuki away—disappeared with him. Why would Watari lie about that? That was worse.

A whole month. With Muraki, and no one to help him. That was a million times worse than the six months of not knowing where Tsuzuki was before it. The thought made Hisoka furious.

So maybe he couldn't help it if Terazuma was the most readily available target to take his fear and frustration out on. "Just because you feel bad now that you treated him like crap all these years?"

"Hey! You have no idea what it was like for me to be his partner, the shit he put me through for the fun of it—"

His words landed on Hisoka's soul like a slap to the face. It must have shown, too, because Terazuma tried just as soon as he'd realized what he'd done to rein them back in.

But he couldn't take them back. Even more, he couldn't take back the emotion he emitted like a gas leak, invisible to himself but no less flammable at the tiniest spark. How tempting it was for Hisoka to be that spark. His blood boiled within him, and his bow hand itched, urging him to lash out at Terazuma like he'd never felt the desire to before. You say you respect him one moment, and the next you complain about how he treated you? And you expect me to believe you really understand? That you really care?

Did you think I wouldn't notice how you really felt?

"Kurosaki. . . ." He could feel the apology coming like it was a lump in his own throat. "I—"

"I don't want to hear it. I don't think I want to talk about this anymore."

And before Terazuma could try to backpedal any further, Hisoka hurried off the range, refraining from throwing down his bow by the thinnest of threads. The tightness in his chest was getting worse. Breathing, more difficult. He tried to calm his own trembling muscles, but the harder he grasped for control, the more it seemed to be slipping from him. He needed out of the dojo—now, before anyone else came by and saw him. He needed fresh air.

Hisoka was barely outside those walls when it hit him. Like a blow to the gut. Bracing himself against the nearest post, he doubled over, feeling like he was going to be sick. But all the came out of him was a pathetic whimper of a cry, like that of a small, terrified animal.

He clamped his hands over his mouth. He could feel the scream building in his throat, pushing to get out. The more he held it in, the more his body shook out of his control. Tears blurred his vision, running hot over the backs of his hands. But he didn't dare wipe them away. He couldn't risk anyone hearing him and rushing to his aid. The pain was excruciating—the feeling he had tried so hard not to feel, like a part of him had been brutally ripped away—but he couldn't afford to let anyone find him like this. Miserable and weak.

Because if Hisoka couldn't even keep himself from falling apart here, in the safety of Enma-cho, how could he expect Tsuzuki to get through whatever that monster had planned for him in one piece?