He closes his eyes.
The blades hang from him. He can feel their weight. Imagine walking down the street with passing eyes unaware. Imagine he already has.
It's too clear an image to be wholly imaginary.
He tries to remember how the law works, when it comes to knives, but he comes up empty. It probably doesn't matter, anyway—the rules are different, when you're rich. Naoto has a car that costs more than his father's salary ever was and the plating is colored gold. Gold.
He takes a deep breath.
When he reaches, the blades jump into his hands.