Genta grabs my arm. His blood is slick on his palm and... and on me, which pushes the metaphor to the point of emotional collapse.

I look at my arm, then I look up at his face, all defences down. I shake my head wordlessly. I do not know what I am negating, just... just all of it. This is not right.

"If one has a faulty weapon, a faulty tool, that continually causes harm, then disposing of it is not 'running away'," I say at last, voice hoarse.