He hadn't expected it to hurt like this, having his own blade in his hands again.
London was like a different life entirely; New York, a buffer between the two. Distance. A chance -- as close as someone like him could hope for, pray for -- to begin again.
Then a ghost pressed another ghost's memento mori into his hands.
He was surprised they hadn't shook as he'd accepted. Or, maybe not; he'd earned that impassive mask.
And -- was there another message lurking beneath? Or was that foolishness?
In the darkness Aya pressed Shion's flat to his lips, and had no answer.