“Um... can you stand?” Misora said, reaching out toward him. The man looked up at her, his eyes in shadow, as if two holes were staring at her.
“Thank you,” he said, and took her hand. Misora pulled him upright. “Are you injured? Does it hurt anywhere?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” the man said, not letting go of her hand. Even on his feet, he did not attempt to move away. They appeared to be shaking hands. Like warriors on a battlefield, exchanging a firm handshake after surviving yet another bloody fight.
“You are very kind,” he said, with something like a smile, and at last let go of her hand. Then he tottered away as if nothing at all had happened, slowly climbing the stairs again.
“Ah. . .w-wait! Just a second!”
Misora had almost let him go, but a moment later she ran after him, circling around in front of him again. She was an FBI agent and could not let an assault crime go unpunished. The young man was sucking his thumb. He did not appear to be at all nervous.
“If you aren’t hurt, then you’ll have to come with me. Sexual assault is a serious crime. You can’t go around throwing your arms around women. What were you thinking?”
“Don’t just stand there. Say something. This attitude won’t make things easier for you. What’s your name?”
Naomi Misora had asked his name. The young man nodded.
And answered.
“Please call me Ryuzaki,” he said, unperturbed. Just like someone else had.
And a few years after his arrest, on January 21, 2004, serving a life sentence in a California
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