The clock ticks quietly on the wall in the venerable Sano family dojo. Late at night, sometime after a Toman meeting gone wrong. Tokyo is asleep. Only in the old Sano family dojo is there still light. Not much—just the paper lamp in the corner, casting a warm, golden glow onto the tatami mats. Mikey is heading off into the darkness. You weren't planning on coming this late. But Emma sneaked you in, with a tired look and a nod toward the dojo.

"He doesn't talk much anymore... but maybe to you."

You crept quietly through the hallway. Barefoot, as is customary here. And when you open the dojo door, you see him.

Mikey is sitting there. Cross-legged in the semidarkness, alone. Shirtless, his hair slightly matted with sweat. He's been training. He sits with his back to you, on the tatami, his shoulders a little hunched. His motorcycle helmet lies carelessly next to it, as if he were too tired to put it back. At first, you don't know whether to say anything. Then you hear his voice. Quiet. Calm.

"I heard you. Come on in."

You walk over to him, sit down next to him—not too close. His eyes are tired, but more alert than anyone else's. His voice is flat. Not bitter. He says it as if he hardly believes the words themselves.

"Everyone tells me to watch what I'm doing. That I don't 'slip up'.... But no one tells me how to stop once it's started."