Togusa shakes his head more vigorously, holding out a hand. “No no, I’m all right. The guy I thought you were, one of my commanding officers.” He offers a smile. This guy even almost sounds like him. “Nothing’s wrong. But,” slowly, “do you have a cousin or something named Noah?”

Tucked into the back of Togusa’s belt, as if it’s just another piece of equipment, is an identical paintbrush, slowly dripping silver shiny paint that turns black whenever it hits the white blankness.