After the streets were cleared, after the authorities had been talked down, after he and Mob parted for what Reigen prepared himself to be the last time, Reigen sat in his bathroom and picked the glass and gravel out of his feet. He cleaned his scrapes, scrubbed the dirt from his hands, washed the blood out of his hair, and redressed himself in clean, untorn clothes like he was sliding his mask of composure back into place.

His right hand ached with the phantom sensation of Mob's fingers between his.