Oriya once asked why he kept them, year after year after year. Muraki�s answer at first was an enigmatic smile that meant everything and nothing.

He trails fingertips over the first doll he picks up, the delicate porcelain cool to the touch. Dolls were simple. Dolls were complicated. Dolls were� static.

He picks up his favourite, petting the ash-blond hair gently, admiring the vibrant emerald eyes that had first caught his attention and led to the purchase.

Oriya asked why he kept them.

Dolls could put broken, but still fixed, the scars hidden under new perfection.

Alas, dolls couldn�t scream.

Lingering Beneath the Skin

He�s realised that he�ll never truly be free.

Oh, he can try to move on, try to forget, but it�s impossible. How can he forget the event that made him into the person he is now?

Tsuzuki helps, he really does, but even when Hisoka lies in his arms, quiet and sated, he can feel the creeping trail of fingertips on his skin. He can see a blood-red moon and falling Sakura in his mind�s eye.

Deep below his skin, he can still feel a curse that no longer exists, a burning tie that will always bind him to Muraki.

Cracks

Oriya knows better than to touch, though he�ll watch in morbid fascination. For all his toughness, Oriya is a simple creature, easily repulsed by the macabre.

To fix a doll, one must want it to be whole again. One must also be willing to sacrifice another, since cracks can�t simply be fixed by thin air.

Muraki smiles, a slow, terrifying smile, trailing a finger down the smooth cheek of the Hisoka doll, just before he viciously runs his nails down the doll�s cheek.

He likes to think that, somewhere, Hisoka�s screaming in pain, clutching his cheek.

Some cracks never heal.

Ghost of a Smile

It�s a comfort, now, since the rest of them are gone and only he�s left.

The photograph�s battered by now and faded around the edges, but he doesn�t mind � Tsuzuki, grinning broadly, an arm thrown carelessly around Bon, who manages to scowl and smile at the same time with amused eyes.

Tatsumi sits beside them, trying for dignity and failing, a hand frozen halfway up as he tries to pet 003, who�s teetering unsteadily on his shoulder. A smile ghosts his lips, his eyes twinkling faintly.

Watari can�t help the tear sliding down his cheek, even as he smiles back.

Sixteen Words

They say a picture speaks a thousand words. But this one only speaks sixteen.

Tsuzuki grins beside me, waving a doughnut in the air.

�Ohayo! I�m Tsuzuki Asato!�

I sit beside him, new and smiling uncertainly, still boggling over the fact that I�m� dead.

�Watari Yutaka. Pleased to meet you.�

Tsuzuki was my first real friend. Heh, I had to die to finally make friends, funny. But� I have no regrets.

�Want me to show you around?�

He doesn�t know that I still have the photograph that Wakaba took on my first day. I won�t tell him� it�s my memory.

The Masterpiece

His collection was a masterpiece. Was.

Decades of collecting and editing, all carefully stored in physical form and then, later, on hard-drive. So much work, love and dedication� all destroyed by this malevolent little brat.

Hisoka smiled at him, his eyes vicious. �Forgive me, Hakushaku, but I think you and I need to come to an understanding.�

The brat�s eyes narrowed. �Tsuzuki�s mine. Not yours. Never yours. And if I ever find such� filth as this again, I will lose my temper.�

Hakushaku said nothing as Hisoka stormed out. There had been several cameras that the brat had missed, anyway.

Peace

The first time they tried it, they were in a hotel during a mission in muggy hot weather. It was too hot to sightsee or even to read � both of them could only fitfully doze in the heat, too groggy to even attempt a conversation.

Then Tsuzuki�s lips caressed his as he slid over him, fingertips slowly trailing over damp skin. It was too hot to even wear much clothing, so that wasn�t a problem.

Afterwards, nestled in Tsuzuki�s protective embrace, the sweat cooling on their bodies from a nonexistent breeze, Hisoka wondered if this was what peace felt like.

The Violence of Love

Tonight, Yuki Eiri had to die.

His time was up. Those were the orders. He wasn�t difficult to find, being a famous novelist and all (Hisoka, however, had never read his books, citing them as �shallow, romantic rubbish�).

But when they found him, someone else was there, too. A younger man was shouting, before abruptly throwing himself at Yuki with a degree of violence that only came from love.

At that, Tsuzuki�s eyes softened and he murmured that perhaps they should give them another few hours. He grasped Hisoka�s hand and lead them both back to the shadows to wait.

SohRyu's Defeat

SohRyu was pissed. Whenever something annoyed him this badly (usually Tsuzuki), everyone tended to get out of his way. Tsuzuki usually almost cried and tried to cower behind his partner, resulting in said partner becoming annoyed, as well.

Well, SohRyu was pissed � but this time, surprisingly, Tsuzuki had nothing to do with it. That didn�t mean the shinigami wasn�t scared, however.

�What did that girl say she was able to do?�

SohRyu�s voice was too calm. Not a good sign.

�She� she said she managed to defeat you.�

�With what?�

��Suzaku.�

SohRyu�s expression turned apoplectic.

It was definitely time to run.

Watching

Hakushaku never realised that he himself was being watched.

Watching Tsuzuki was, understandably, a time-consuming activity, which meant that Hakushaku rarely paid attention to his duties. Which meant that Watson had to watch for him. If it hadn�t been for him, Hakushaku would never have realised that a flame had come back from almost extinguishing!

Watson couldn�t understand his master�s fascination with the violet-eyed one, particularly now that the little one was involved. But his master insisted on persisting, and there was little Watson could do to stop him.

So he watched his master watch his object. In silence. Unnoticed.

Regretting

It hurt.

It wasn�t supposed to, considering he wasn�t jealous. He knew Kurosaki-kun was better for Tsuzuki-san than he ever could be� but it hurt. He didn�t understand why, but it did.

He tried not to watch them, really he did, but his eyes were drawn to them. Seeing the way Tsuzuki-san smiled (a real smile) and then the way that Kurosaki-kun would blush� it hurt so much.

But he would hide it, berating Tsuzuki for slacking off and ignoring him as he would whine and complain.

And Tatsumi realised that Tsuzuki was someone he would never quite get over.

Mirror

They say the mirror never lies. They say it�s an unwavering, constant truth.

They lie.

Hisoka will be forever sixteen, physically. That part is truth, and in that the mirror does not lie. He will forever have the wiry, coltish limbs and body of a teen that will never broaden into adulthood. Hisoka says he�s come to terms with this, but it�s not true.

It can�t be true because his eyes, the mirrors to the soul that show the truth and his real age, show the hatred, the desperation, that he feels for this body that led to his death.

Tsuzuki hates watching Hisoka watch the mirror.

What I Meant to Say

It rained all day.

It poured, clear rivulets sliding down the windows. It made Tsuzuki depressed. He whined, making Hisoka edgy and snappish. Even Watari found it difficult to muster a smile, and Tatsumi was just better left alone.

When Hisoka came home, he stared at himself in the mirror. He sighed, taking out the well-worn note� the long-memorised words echoing hollowly in his mind.

Tomorrow, I will not snap at him. Tomorrow, I will be nice to him.

But now underneath his neat words was Tsuzuki�s familiar scrawl:

I know what you find difficult to say. It�s all right.

Never Really Gone

The case had been simple � the soul hadn�t passed on, so they�d found him and sent him on to be judged. Easy.

The boy was a suicide victim, which Hisoka had almost hid from Tsuzuki, but finally hadn�t. When Tsuzuki disappeared without warning, Hisoka didn�t panic, but the tightness in his chest told him what he�d find.

Tsuzuki was sitting on the kid�s bed when Hisoka found him, reading the suicide note with trembling hands. He wouldn�t look at Hisoka, keeping his head down.

His eyes stared at his right wrist, seeing the faded scars hidden by smooth, worn leather.

Confessions of an Empath

This was wrong, Hisoka told himself. It was wrong, wrong, wrong. Except� it didn�t feel like that.

Tsuzuki�s breathing was hitching by now, his grip on Hisoka becoming rather desperate. Hisoka almost complained, except he knew that he was no better.

�Tsu-Tsuzuki,� he gasped out, pressing his face against Tsuzuki�s chest as the fire grew between his legs. The emotions and fantasies of the crowd around them made his head hurt, and Hisoka wondered if another empath was here and could sense his own.

When everything exploded, the crowd swallowed his scream, as Tsuzuki held him hard enough to bruise.

Sneak Peek

Watari could understand why Bon hated his empathy sometimes � being able to read the emotions of others probably sucked. But it had one very important benefit � it could serve as a warning for when to leave certain offices very much alone.

They�d been so involved in their� activities that they hadn�t even heard him open the door. But he had definitely noticed them, his face burning as he quickly exited the room again.

Tsuzuki, flat on his back on the desk, mouth open, gasping.

Bon, sprawled on him, eyes squeezed shut, moving�

Watari winced as he felt himself grow hard.

Conventional Methods

They were being watched, so they were travelling around in conventional ways instead of using their powers. It was slow and tedious, but it was safer.

�nfortunately, it also gave Tsuzuki� ideas.

It began with him trailing his fingers down Hisoka�s back, making him shiver. Then it progressed to brushes of his mouth against Hisoka�s neck, finally growing to Tsuzuki kneading the front of Hisoka�s jeans and making the boy-Shinigami keen.

Thankfully, the platform was busy enough that no one noticed the flushed boy half-hidden by the older man � apart from the aroused teenager who stared with his mouth half-opened.

The Actions of Others

In Meifu, where it is eternally pleasant, the seasons are marked by the actions of others.

Tsuzuki gets depressed at winter, with the gentle weather and fall of Sakura. He insists that he can feel the biting cold deep inside his bones, and nothing will convince him otherwise.

Tatsumi is more accessible during spring, even though it isn�t different from the rest of the year. It�s best to approach him about funds and bonuses during this season � unless one is Tsuzuki, of course, for whom there is never a good season.

But when Tsuzuki smiles at Tatsumi, he smiles back.

Not Gifts of Material Wealth

In Hisoka�s mind, gifts aren�t products of material wealth � they are items that are never seen, but treasured far more than gifts wrapped in ribbons and colourful paper. They are given because of sincerity and generosity, not because of obligation, and they are worth the effort.

These are the gifts that Tsuzuki has given him � patience, generosity, love. But the most important gift that Tsuzuki gave him is the ability to care. True, it�s hidden under fits of temper and barked insults, but Tsuzuki knows that he cares.

And Hisoka knows that Tsuzuki knows each time he smiles at him.

Branded Gift

The taste of blood goes down easy: copper; metallic; smooth. It shines the colour of royal blue in the distorted room, as Hijiri�s wide eyes stare at nothing. But then, slowly, he fades until it�s Hisoka sprawled against the wall, framed in splattered blood patterns.

The cleaver falls from their hand, landing on the soaked carpet with a dull thud, as Tsuzuki screams and Sagadalius laughs.

Tsuzuki snaps awake with a panicked cry, his hair twisting in his hands as his left shoulder blade burns, a constant reminder of his possession.

In his mind, Sagadalius whispers, �My gift to you.�

Holding One's Alcohol

Hisoka knew he couldn�t hold his alcohol.

But the latest nightmare-memory, along with Tsuzuki�s merging into it, made the first glass easy to swallow. Tsuzuki joined him in the second glass. By the fifth glass, Hisoka suddenly found himself straddling Tsuzuki�s lap with extraordinary ease, while Tsuzuki found his back a fascinating thing to trail his fingers along.

By the seventh glass, exploring the other�s mouth was much more interesting than drinking. By the ninth, the bed appeared to be the most marvellous thing ever created.

In the morning, a hangover wasn�t the only thing they had to deal with.

Dishonest Proposition

One glass of wine, Muraki said. One glass, that was all, and then he�d leave him alone.

Tsuzuki didn�t get drunk very easily, unlike his younger partner, so he wasn�t worried when Muraki held the wine glass out to him. But then the wine bottle turned into two, and then three, and then�

Later, when he realised that Muraki had tricked him, Tsuzuki found it too much effort to move, instead remaining sprawled underneath Muraki on the cool, white sheets, his head beginning to slowly spin. Muraki�s pale body shone in the moonlight, his mechanical eye gleaming as he smiled.

Crimson Arousal

The feeling� well, it�s more like he�s going numb, now.

It�s so strange� he can�t ever remember being able to get this drunk before (how much have I had to drink?) and there�s something definitely wrong about being in bed with Muraki (but what?).

Even the knife sliding carefully down his chest should be setting off alarm bells in his head. But he can�t feel a thing, and so Tsuzuki only watches, fascinated, as Muraki leans down and slowly drags his tongue along the cut.

Muraki�s mouth is soon stained crimson.

Tsuzuki, on the other hand, can only feel aroused.

Methods of Memory Loss

The sake burns as it slides down his throat. Good.

Drink it all away�

He can�t remember which glass this is. It doesn�t matter.

Maybe if I drink enough�

If Hisoka were here, he�d yell at him.

�I can forgot. Completely.

But he never does. The price to pay for an iron liver.

Tsuzuki swallows the rest too quickly, sputtering as he nearly chokes. When fingers suddenly close around his, his eyes snap open, locking onto emerald ones.

But maybe you�ll help me forget�

He doesn�t protest when Hisoka silently takes the glass from him, and holds out his hand.

Stream of Consciousness

Consciousness comes with a white ceiling and a mouth that is, as a whole, too dry.

Memory comes with widened eyes and stuttered gasp that succumbs into a dry, rasping cough. Sunlight pierces through watering eyes, a stab of pain that lances through his head with devestating accuracy.

Tsuzuki sleeps soundly beside him, one arm curled around his waist. His face is peaceful, devoid of the shadows that usually haunt even his most cheerful expressions. Hisoka watches him, before hesitantly reaching out to brush his fngers down Tsuzuki�s cheek, a rare gesture usually unseen.

Intoxication, he decides, is worth this.

Punishment of Protection

He cried the first time they put him in the cell. He remembered curling up into a little ball, burrowing his face in his arms as the cries of Monster, Demon-child and Punishment! rang through his mind.

It was cold, the yukata he wore being no protection for the occasional bursts he spent down below during that first winter. The words hurt more when it was cold, biting through him better than any frozen gust. Later, he would wrap the cold around him until it absorbed into his bones and made him numb.

Protection.

Soon, even his tears froze up.

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First Friend

Tsuzuki made his first friend when there was no one else around. She was a year younger than him and knew no better, though he did. He told her to keep their friendship secret, and she did.

That month was the happiest he could remember, though Ruka cried when she found out. She said her tears were from happiness that he finally had a friend.

But her eyes said, You know this will never last.

The adults found out and told her what he was. When he next met her, she would not look at him, and she walked away.

Dance Partner

The first time Ruka tried to teach him to dance, Tsuzuki stumbled, stepped on her toes, and froze. Ruka smiled, and the lessons continued. Over time, Tsuzuki�s dancing improved, and Ruka always said whoever would one day partner Tsuzuki would be a very lucky girl, indeed. Tsuzuki smiled sadly and would reply that she was the only partner he needed.

But now, as he leads Hisae in the dance, her skirt swishing as she whirls, the lights spinning as they move together in perfect time, he still wishes that Ruka could see him.

He hopes that she would be proud.

Sugar Rush

Hisoka secretly doesn�t like it when Tsuzuki eats cake, despite his actions to the contrary. Tsuzuki eating cake also means that he eats frosting � which usually results in a frantic, dangerous sugar rush. But it�s quite simple to deal with� all he has to do is be firm enough to quieten Tsuzuki, but not angry enough to make him cry.

But there are some things that even Hisoka can�t deal with.

When he arrives in to find Tsuzuki and Byakko sprawled on the ground, frosting smeared on their faces, he realises that it�s going to be a very bad day.

Broken Fragments

The ghosts of their pasts will never leave them.

Rose petals, cut in remorseful sympathy, lie scattered with Sakura petals, ripped from the blossom with a grim perversion � all are blood-stained. A woman�s long hair of two shades, tinged with guilt and alcohol on one side, with the shattered porcelain remains of a doll intermingled on the other.

Memories return in broken fragments: blood, guilt, lust, hate, all soaked with the daily tedium of paperwork and the hunt for meaning in a life that is no more.

Some ghosts are never forgotten. Some need to be forgotten, but never will.

Facets of a Ghost-like Being

In Western culture, ghosts have been whittled down to frivolous beings, another costume for a child to wear � a white sheet with holes cut out for eyes and red dye for blood.

In reality, the blood is real and lingering, the eyes large and haunted. Paleness comes from fear and never-ending grief. In reality, ghosts are an angry boy who will never age and a sombre man with unnatural eyes. The one who haunts them takes the form of an angelic-like man with the smile of a demon, a relentless pursuer who won�t stop until he has what he desires.

Whispers

His memories are writhing whispers of fog and smoke, interlaced with blood, tears and grief. They are anything but faint � sharp, clear, quick in their reminding and judgement. He has wept over them more than he wishes to remember.

At his age, his memory should have to give way for new ones� surely there has to be a limit to the amount a mind can hold? There are � possibly � some events that he can no longer remember, if they pale in significance to other events, but he isn�t certain.

He hopes that those he can no longer remember weren�t important.

Senses of Memory

Memory presents him with a scent of cinnamon and desire musk, along with an image of tousled hair, wild eyes and stained cheeks.

Memory helps him remember how Tsuzuki�s skin felt under his grip, smooth and sweat-slicked, soft. He can still remember the movements Tsuzuki made under him, desperate as he writhed, begged and moaned.

Memory gives him thoughts (want you need you now now fuck me love me want me), stained with nails trailing down his back and sweat dripping into his eyes, and desire tainting it all.

Memory shows him how he looked, riding Tsuzuki and loving it.

Living Hate

�How did you die, Muraki?�

Both Muraki and Gushoushin Elder stiffened, and Tsuzuki realised briefly that he�d put his foot in it again, but the doctor had already recovered and was considering his words.

�There was a boy�� he said at last. �A boy who was not all he seemed. I� underestimated him.�

Tsuzuki picked up his glass; they returned to their meal in silence. Tsuzuki wondered if it�d been the boy he�d seen today. Tsuzuki swore that he�d been able to see the outline of a snake around the boy, as he�d glared at Muraki with living, emerald hate.

Coming to Collect

The moon was red. A demon moon - a demon eye.

The breeze ruffled Hisoka's hair as he wandered through the grounds. He shivered, cold even though the night was mildly cool. Something was wrong... very wrong.

His cheeks flamed as he saw the couple embrace under the Sakura tree, until the woman fell down and Hisoka knew she was very, very dead.

The man turned, his eyes purple and sad.

"It's time, Hisoka," he whispered, holding out his hand.

His heart was in his throat. "I'm not ready."

The man sighed. "I know. I'm sorry."

Hisoka took the man's hand.

Never Truly Gone

�This is Muraki, our resident doctor. He and Watari kinda � sorta � always argue.�

The doctor smiles, pale eyes wandering over Hisoka in a not-so-subtle way. Looking from him to Tsuzuki and back again, Hisoka wonders why no one else can sense what he can � a soul with no regrets, and no limits.

It takes him a while to remember - weeks, in fact. It comes to him in a fall of Sakura, a red moon, and the flash of the doctor�s blade � his murderer � that Hisoka used to kill him.

�Oh, God. You.�

The doctor�s smile is ice. �Yes, boy. Me."

Cornered Prey

The panic threatens to overwhelm him, but he stands his ground. Then he remembers what happened the last time he didn�t run, and the panic explodes in his throat.

Muraki takes a step towards him, then another. �I�m surprised you didn�t move on,� he says. �Still � I can�t complain.�

Then there�s another person between them, with burning violet eyes and a mouth pressed into a thin line. �What�s going on?�

�Nothing,� Muraki says, turning away with a final glance.

Tsuzuki turns to Hisoka and says, �Tell me. Now.�

Tsuzuki�s a fool. A bumbling, sweet-addicted fool.

But Hisoka still tells him.

The Price to Pay

Tsuzuki didn�t even twitch when Hisoka told him what happened. Not even when he said how he plunged the knife into the doctor�s stomach and twisted. He listened, waited until Hisoka was finished, then hugged him. Hisoka, somehow, let him.

He promised to help him. Hisoka nodded, trying not to remember the rumours of Tsuzuki and Muraki being more than just friends, and then tried not to remember the burning jealousy he�d felt upon hearing those rumours.

He didn�t ask what part of Tsuzuki would die from confronting the doctor.

But neither of them actually counted on Muraki fighting back.

Being the Phantom and his Rival

�But it�s perfect!� Hakushaku protested, clasping his hands together and looking entirely too sparkly. �It�s world-famous and I already have the mask!�

�No. Way.� Tsuzuki folded his arms, surprisingly stern before Hakushaku as he glared. �I am not putting on a dress and there�s no miracle in Meifu that could make me a soprano.�

Hisoka glared over at Hakushaku, while Tsuzuki�s expression merely strengthened.

�But, Tsuzuki!� Hakusahku continued desperately. �You would be the perfect Christine to my Phantom!�

�Back. Off,� Hisoka snarled, his eyes glinting as he came up to them.

Hakushaku sighed. �And you, of course, would be Raoul.�

Cause from Misuse

�I�m sorry.�

He remembers her through a memory of the deep, faint, sweet-sickly scent of alcohol that assaulted his sense of smell. He remembers the weak hug she gave him, how loosely her arms wrapped around his, back then, thin frame.

�I�m sorry.�

The most striking symbol that triggers her in his mind is the sweeping brush, lying idle against the wall, clogged with dust and lost in time. She loathed the thing; screamed at it during her worst days when she wasn�t screaming at him.

Tatsumi wonders why he has always carried the blame, when she was the cause.

The Difference of Wrong

Tsuzuki�s guilt is deep and dark and hidden, and not even Hisoka�s infrequent accidental touches can discover it. And that is the way Tsuzuki wishes it to remain, for if Hisoka knew� he�d hate him.

The memories are sharp and clear, refusing to fade with the passing of time as they should. He remembers Ruka�s wide, pretty eyes as he hesitantly kissed her. Tsuzuki�s couldn�t see what was wrong, since Ruka was kind and pretty, so why shouldn�t he kiss her?

Ruka thought differently. So did the mob.

Tsuzuki finally learned his true nature � and what never-ending blame felt like.

The Joy of the Kill

Tsuzuki was completely to blame. He knew this.

It was his weakness that had allowed Sagadalius to possess him. He was to blame for Sagadalius� control of him. It was his fault a good chunk of JuOhCho exploded.

But everyone forgave, as they always did. Hijiri forgave him with an easy smile and warm eyes, Kasuza with the help of ice-cream, and Hisoka scoffed when Tsuzuki tried to stammer an apology.

But Tsuzuki can�t forgive himself� because he enjoyed the possession. He enjoyed the blood, the killing, the flash of the cleaver.

And for that, there can be no forgiveness.

Dreaming

His father told him he loved him, despite everything that had happened. Hisoka never understood what this meant, but connected it with the little grave his father tended and cried over. His father told him he was sorry, and he loved him, and he was so, so sorry.

Then Hisoka woke up and realised it had all been a dream.

Hisoka has never understood why people give presents as a confession of love. But Tsuzuki loves presents and sweets, and loves any excuse for receiving one or both.

Tsuzuki�s smile is mirror-bright upon holding the gift. This is no dream.

Moonshine

Its shine is gentle, a shivering caress that burns my skin in a glowing trail. It is delicate, obsolete, a silver orb that reminds me of him, of his hair and eyes, of his hands that touched me, and hurt me, and dug in.

It is surrounded by nothing, darkness, the blackness of my mind. The stars were not out that night, the night it turned red.

It is both silver and crimson, cool and hot, watcher and observer, but never takes action. It did not help that night; it could not. It merely watched.

It always makes me remember.

Witness

The moon glows in the sky, a silent watcher to his torment.

You are mine. You were always mine.

The estate looks beautiful, highlighted in gentle silver. Calm. Soothing. A lie.

You�re weak. Perhaps you always were. Fool. You knew you could not last long.

The moon is probably shining over the two small graves of his daughter and son, both of the same name, both dead, both safe.

Nagare can�t help the sounds coming from his throat as wave after wave of hated desire washes over him, tainted with Yatonogami�s laughter.

Only the moon is witness to his torment.

Patience

You will never move on.

You will never repay your debt.

You will never be free.

EnmaDaiOh-sama�s whispered words haunt Tsuzuki, reminding him of his guilt for the actions he took that had a terrible price: the bonds that keep him in Meifu. He knows that he will not move on for a very long time.

Once, Tsuzuki would have done anything to just simply disappear, never mind move on and start again.

But when Hisoka�s fingers hesitantly intertwine with his, Tsuzuki knows he can hold on� for the day that he can face EnmaDaiOh-sama with hope in his eyes.

In the Blood

His daughter didn�t cry. Nagare always remembered this. He held her once before they killed her, and he was proud that she did not cry.

He was relieved when Rui gave him a son this time, but the relief was bittersweet; he would lose the boy to Yatonogami, regardless.

But, upon holding his son in his arms as Hisoka gazed at him with brilliant emerald eyes, Nagare suddenly fancied that his daughter�s calm acceptance radiated from that vibrant gaze. His children did not look alike, but Nagare saw much of his daughter in his son.

Hisoka would always haunt him.