"I was almost expecting that old asshole Kuwabara," Ogata says, after grinding his heel over the butt of his cigarette; he's dressed the same way as when he was in his early thirties, and that's how his body feels, as well: and between the first thing and the second, so far Ogata's impression of the afterlife is overwhelmingly positive.

The lovely-looking man purses his lips, and it's like seeing a minor god disapproving of Ogata's priorities - "if you would prefer, I am sure it could be arranged," he says, almost stiffly, or... disappointed somehow, and the angle of his dipping head, the contrast of his black hair over his pale skin remind Ogata of another time, a sake-soaked night, dreamlike and fleeting like a ghost.

"No," Ogata says, shaking his head; smirking without quite knowing why, and his heart (come on, isn't he dead, how is this happening) - his go-loving heart beating faster, "I believe you owe me a rematch, and I've waited long enough."