" i guess . . . " fiction was exactly what it felt like, even with reality staring straight back at him. impossibly young for people trace had only ever thought of as parents, the rediscovered old photographs held firmly within his grasp clearly displayed a number of people - some slightly familiar, but most not - the main focal point of each being either derry's father, the woman trace occasionally thought of as mom, or both.

while neither of the portrait subjects appeared to be 100% sober ( as far as trace could tell ) there was an airiness to the way they came across that made them both look almost like completley different people. not necessarily happier, but clearly yet to be bogged down by life, responsibilities the last thing on either of their minds. it was . . . it should have been nice, but the more trace looked the more uneasy he became, quickly becoming uncomfortable with the strangers stuck in time.

reijiro had no part in the man's life-saving surgeries. he hadn't been given much information leading up to his transfer from touto hospital to his clinic, where he would be staying for rehabilitation and further treatment. considering the circumstances, reijiro had little to no room to complain. the paycheck he'd get for this would help provide the man's needs, his own, and that of his clinic, so substantial was the amount. he all but fainted during the phone call regarding the situation, for that reason among many others.

he didn't know much either about the nishikiyama family--the drama surrounding the fabled ten billion yen only brought wounded yakuza by the dozens--some stoic and others wild--with too much scattered information that he couldn't quite piece together enough to save his life (or his sanity). he otherwise would not question this man's particular involvement, only to keep his presence at his clinic a secret even from the kazama family. a difficult task, even if it were only a temporary bout of secrecy. he could only promise his best, and leave the rest up to fate.

the nerve ! with a hand placed over his heart and a look of faux-offense forced upon features trace would, with one big hop, land on the countertop without a second thought, eyes rolling once safely perched in his position of choice.

suspicious was such an ugly word, he thought . . . especially when spoken amongst family - and they were family, weren't they? in some peculiar ( forced ) way or another they were, and surely derry wouldn't deny something as mundane as a conversation to a family member.