The cigarette isn't the freshest if Schon is a connoisseur. Katsuya doesn't have an addiction to the things yet. The pack is fairly old. Still, he doesn't pull a face or cough, either. It's a habit he's picked up and put down a few times over the years.

"I don't know." Katsuya admits, and the corners of his mouth turn upward around the lit smoke held between his lips. "That's the frustrating part. How much I didn't know." Whether it was kept from him, or whether he'd failed to ask. How much of either, he's got no clue. Both, certainly, but the details are foggy. It's all foggy.

Maybe that was the trouble all along. All the things they never talked about.

Nails scraping on cement. That Katsuya understands. The scent of rotting meat in the air. That Katsuya knows well. Immune to bullets, don't go for the gun. Helios is already coiled behind his shoulder, its golden eyes peering through the darkness, searching for prey. The officer's movements are automatic--his shift from conversational to hunter seamless and practiced. By the time the harpies are lunging he already has two handfulls of fire lobbed in their directions, the golden glow of singed feathers reflecting off of his tinted glasses.

"Kind of sad that this comes easier to me than dealing with women." He comments finally, taking a drag off of his cigarette.