The coffee machine. The television. [ He pulls his phone out and gives it a long, hard look. ] Misfired messages.

[ it's honesty, ah-- he hums, partially to the tune of the music and partially to a song only he can hear. he thinks those are the lyrics, but he doesn't want to mess it up. his voice lends itself well to creating the quiet beat, at least.

As draining as it is to stand, it's more draining not to think about music. And as the ascend to higher floors, Keith knows he ought to be even higher. Had he perhaps forgotten a dream of being a pilot? ]

Are we really from rival samurai clans, Mr. Karelin? Is that how we know each other?