"Glad to hear that," Hiro answered softly. And wasn't that a downer. Hints of memories stirred in the deepest corners of Hiro's tidy and well-organized mind: fragments of Genma's voice whispering field atrocities in a dull monotone, Raidou's words strident with defensive anger and wild-animal fear. Hiro pushed them back away with an effort, important recollections to keep stored firmly in his subconscious knowledge, never to see the light of day. He needed practice, anyway: Kotoe-san must have towering file cabinets full of these old, faded debriefings and confessions, too painful to look at but too vital to forget.

He plucked a yatsuhashi from the bag, biting off a corner thoughtfully. The rich cinnamon flavor reminded him of the cake, and he flushed again, deep beneath the surface where no one could see. Observing Ginta's rising melancholy, he sacrificed himself on the altar of changing the subject.

"You seem practically like an Eros-trained agent yourself, the amount you talk about 'sudoku'," he ventured, head tilted at a mildly provocative angle. "Are you sure your friend Genma is the only one?" His attempt, bringing up Genma again, was to air out the topic, loosen up some of the ache and make it liveable. Paper over that particular minefield, as Kotoe-san would say, and hope it held.