There's a part of him he hungers to repress. Katas, meditation, the rituals he's built. (The lighting of candles, where all he can think is the irony of harnessing so much destruction into a pinprick, the trance by which he polishes his swords—the long, sweeping motions of oiled cloth caressing battle scars and the mottled surface of forged scrap metal. Imperfect. They're scars even he can't remember.) He runs his life like clockwork, down to the last measured detail until every breath has awareness, every footstep is deliberate. But the rain… it hacks at his resolve until his flesh aches, takes his hand like a child and leads him to other places. It's nights like these he finally shrugs off all the weight and wanders into the mouth of the sewers, mud squelching between his toes. The whispers draw him below the grate, heavy drops kissing his upturned face. His breath has lost its meter. He's left his swords at home.