Drenched in blood. Fingers broken. Tears. Yoshi was waiting for her when she dragged herself from her bedroom. He was slumped at the table, bandage across his bare chest, the dazzling new mural of Izanagi and his spear running over hard muscle, shoulder to hip. The iron-thrower was laid out in front of him, a few inches from outstretched fingers. His hair was a knotted curtain framing sunken cheeks and too-pale skin. Fistfuls of coin covered the tabletop; dull iron amongst the bloodstains. The air stank of sweat and lotus burn, sunset light cutting scarlet through the ash. Their room was practically palatial; a slick suite in an Upside bedhouse, all polished boards and white walls. The overweight steward who ran it had scowled down a flat, spotty nose as they’d walked in from the street, covered in shit and tears and blood. Yoshi had slapped ten iron kouka onto the countertop, demanded the best room in the house. The fat man’s disdain had dissipated like lotus exhaust on a sea breeze; less palpable, but its scent still hanging in the air.
