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Mizore wanted to scream.

It was stupid, really. Something out of a song. She'd poured out her heart to a boy--it wasn't like she had anything to lose, really--and now he was flipping out and running away. And she looked down, and she flushed, and more than anything she felt embarrassed, that Radio Asuka had made that confession, that Naoko Raidon had seen her so needy, when she was supposed to be the cool kid on the island, and now everything was aborted, done, and she was heartsick (like a damn teenager) before even having a boyfriend.

He had skittered out into the hall. She'd said something wrong. She'd repulsed him. And he was white and breathing hard, sweating, hyperventilating, and he said "Don't you get it, Mizore? I've already killed to live."

And all she could do was fume.

Get it? No, Raidon. I'll probably be much more scared of death when it comes for me then I even think I will. Having trained for protests is likely no substitute. But I like you. Can't I have that? Can you not understand that I'm going to die anyway, and I'd like to kiss you just once, goddamnit, without thinking of my own mortality?

Then her eyes caught where his finger should have been.

There are some things that can kick Mizore Soryu right out of her self-absorbed teenage stress. Seeing that someone is missing a finger is one of them.

"Raidon," she asked. "What the hell happened to your finger?"

Sometimes, Radio Asuka can be a grown-up. She can pull a bag toward her, find bandages and disinfectant, begin unwrapping the cloth like a homemade professional. She can think coldly and incuriously, and she can click her tongue. "What happened?"

Alice Boucher was a liar.
Liz Polanski played with fire.

And who the hell is Radio Asuka?
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All's Fair · The Residential Area