A friend’s friend is still a stranger. No, even a friend falls under the category of “other,” but once they’re woven into your life, they’re hardly a complete stranger. Handing an empty flask to the bartender, Chikuan grinned, his greed bare. “Pour the finest liquor in this place. Don’t worry, General Manager Dick’s footing the bill.” He pointed at Dick with the thumb of his mechanical arm.

  Before Dick could ask what he was playing at, a tongue-click escaped, his brow furrowing in irritation. Settling back onto the stool, lighting a fresh cigarette, Dick spoke in a voice cold as an unsheathed blade. “Spit it out, Chikuan.”

  “Scary stuff! What, a Silentium exec talks to old friends in that tone now, huh, Dickie-boy?” Chikuan teased.

  “If you’re wasting my time, I’m leaving. I don’t give a damn about your so-called interesting story.”

  “Kidding, kidding. You’re immune to sarcasm, aren’t you?”

  Fine. Sipping from a brimming flask, groaning at the alcohol’s burn, Chikuan lit a cigarette like Dick and extended his flesh hand.

  Chikuan was the sloppiest man Dick knew, a ghost-like figure blurring the line between life and death. He’d venture to the undercity, then casually return to the mid-level city, sitting in the top hospital’s professor chair. His “back-alley doctor” reputation came from his undercity work; in the mid-level city, wielding prosthetics, Chikuan was a renowned surgeon nicknamed “Dissection Arm.” Removing inoperable cancer cells, extracting cerebellar tumors—his precision was that of a human-shaped machine. Countless doctors admired the shady Chikuan, ignorant of where he honed his skills or how many lives fueled his surgical expertise.

  Sitting beside Dick, Chikuan stretched his spine, cracking his neck. His dual mechanical eyes showed no fatigue, their gaze untraceable, yet Dick sensed a faint weariness in him.

  Right—Chikuan always came to this bar lounge when exhausted. After four sleepless days of surgeries, after carving up humans in the undercity as a “side job,” after dealing with patients he mocked as trash or dust… whenever mental or physical fatigue hit, he sought this place. Like Dick and his friend, Chikuan was searching for a perch to rest.

  So—Dick knocked the ash from his lengthening cigarette, covering his mouth, catching the blood-scent wafting from Chikuan’s shirt beneath his white coat. He clicked his tongue again.

  “Chikuan,” Dick said.

  “What?”

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  “You went to the undercity again, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “This isn’t advice—it’s a warning. Stop going to the undercity. If your side job gets out, even I can’t shield you. Silentium sees you as—”

  “A convenient pawn, right? In chess terms, you’re the gold, silver, rook, or bishop guarding the king. Me? A knight or pawn. Silentium’s arrogant as hell, and you’re infected by it, you piece of trash. Man… where’d the old Dickie-boy go?” Chikuan shrugged, flashing a sardonic grin, shaking his head. “Whatever, that’s not the point. I’m here to talk about Danan.” His mechanical eyes’ red lines shifted to blue.

  “…His name, from your mouth,” Dick said.

  “Obviously. I owe Danan. Can’t move forward till I repay it. Dick, ever met a kid calling himself Danan?”

  “…Yeah.”

  “What’s that look? Like we’ve seen a bad dream… a ghost? Danan’s supposed to be dead. I paid a fortune to have Secret Ninja investigate. You know that, right? Danan’s dead… no mistake. Right? Or not?”

  His voice trembled with desperation, craving both denial and confirmation. Gulping liquor, fleeing into drunkenness’s maze, Chikuan was more bound to Danan’s name than Dick, a pitiful drunk exposing his weakness, spewing tangled emotions as questions. He clicked his tongue at Dick’s silence.

  “A bad dream… or a good one? Hah, ridiculous. Dickie-boy, my intel says Danan’s definitely dead. Killed by Outlaws in an undercity alley, clinging to his ideals, dying senselessly. So what’s this? Some kid with a new face, new age, memory wiped, claiming to be alive? Danan wouldn’t do that. That outdated cowboy, that idiot who burned his life for ideals, wouldn’t—”

  “Chikuan,” Dick cut in, his sharp, low voice silencing Chikuan and blanketing the bar in quiet.

  “Danan’s dead. I understand that well enough. The dead don’t return, and what’s happened can’t be undone. You think that kid’s a clone or something, but I see it differently. A chance to start over.”

  “Start over?” Chikuan asked.

  “Yes. If that kid calls himself Danan, I’m ready to pay any price. You can’t change the past. No matter how you rewrite memories, what’s done can’t be undone. Past, present, future… time flows into the sea of id, passing knowledge to posterity through hearsay. In that flow, humans are weak, fleeting. Observing that vast sea is a feat even gods can’t achieve. So, as one person living in that flow, I want to guide that kid… Danan. To be his Virgil, seeking reunion with Beatrice.”

  “Dreamer spouting nonsense. Virgil? Beatrice? So that kid—Danan—is Dante now? Come on, Dickie-boy, you’re not still hung up on that book—”

  “I gave it to the kid. It’s useless to me. The Divine Comedy belongs in the right hands, and if that kid carries Danan’s will, it’s not meaningless. That idiot… clinging to ideals, he must’ve foreseen this, entrusting me with it. Danan would… act knowing everything.”

  Would he really think that far ahead? Glancing at Chikuan’s muttering, Dick snatched the flask and drank. The hot alcohol burned his throat, mingling with his blood.

  “Hey, that’s mine!” Chikuan protested.

  “Once in a while’s fine, right? It’s my money anyway. You’ve got no right to complain.”

  “…Fair enough. Still, you stealing my drink? That’s new.”

  “Just a whim, no deeper meaning. Besides—”

  “Besides?”

  “Acting out was Danan’s role. What’s wrong with filling the void? Tell me, Chikuan.”

  “…If you’re fine with it, I’ve got no complaints. We go way back, right? Don’t hold back, Dick.”

  With that, they swapped glass and flask, drinking under the bar’s faint lamp.