Heâs supposed to have spent his day laughing, as he nearly always does (even here, with no familiar-pitched voices to turn a thread of joy to a warbling tightrope), but the many supposed toâs of the day have unraveled behind him - an Argonaut with an afternoonâs labor as his only thread, in a maze no less haunted than the Minotaurâs of old. Yamamotoâs heels are scuffed and his gait less fluid than heâd like to admit, some discarded flashlight the only thing heâs been blessed with in at least an hour. Yamamoto remembers clearly his own wrong turn taken, and he remembers too how the walls had bent with some muted glee at the way heâd tensed at the sudden, feminine whisper: âI donât think Iâll be able to make that game of yours after all.â
 Followed by: âYou werenât there. You let us down,â this lent terrible if distorted vibrance by a shock of auburn hair, empty eyes - or angry ones, these green-flecked with grief - in the shadows.
 The mazeâs voices mimic even his fatherâs lilted rasp - âSon,â heaved like a betrayed sigh.
 Peko hasnât been the only soul going in circles towards the exit. Yamamoto, however, canât recall a single other person heâd passed that had: called out, made contact, touched rough base, albeit with words brimming with tension. The rare few whoâd veered his way had done so with trembling limbs. Flitted away at the last moment, unfamiliar lungs churning ragged, as though their skin crawled too much to bear the solidity of his.
 So when a strangerâs lithe frame comes up against his own, ribs blindsided by her wiry muscle, Yamamotoâs hand presses against the nearest wall for support. His exhale a visible puff in the otherwise musty dimness, the noise the boy lets slip exclaims surprise only a sliver more than fear.
 âSorry,â he starts when he catches his breath. âI didnât mean to hit you - are you okay?â (Almost says didnât mean to hurt you, instead. Maybe the voices are more insistent than heâd thought.)
 Her questions demanding answers, he adds: âWhat?â Raises the wrist his salvaged flashlightâs strapped to, tries a swift calming gesture, hands up and clearly empty. âIâm Yamamoto Takeshi.
 âWow,â he says, completely dodging Pekoâs second question, looking very unabashed about it. His gaze flits the length of her sword hilt, gripped expertly, interest blooming boyishly along tan features. âYouâre fast.â
