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Summary
That’s it. He’s done. Twenty-or-so years of stage combat, a skill honed to the letter, and now Kojiro is but a fool with a spatula and an unmistakable, irreversible … problem with pink hair. Concealment is off the table. The meat needs to be on the table. He can think about this later, maybe.
All the steps that Kojiro and Kaoru take, tripping over grimness and grip-tape. Nailing and failing and nailing again. Breaking themselves to bend back into shape: this is their perfect, horrible waltz.