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Summary
Rion is getting sick of searching for life, and he's been growing tired. What he has now is not life, because life is not bloodied teeth, not bruised knuckles, not ex-white shirts that need to have their rips sewn up, because thread is less expensive than another piece of clothing. A deliveryman's life barely grants any novelty, but it keeps him on the move from place to place. It definitely helped him get away from letters that always knew where he was, asking for the money he didn’t have— running was his talent, after all. Even so, he cannot outrun what has always been shackled to his ankles.
Junō cannot die, and he's been growing scared. Nothing can touch him; not knives, or bullets, nor the death of yet another familiar person, only because he's already witnessed twenty-nine more. An officer's life barely grants any novelty, but with every blade that sinks into his skin, every bit of metal that lodges itself closer to his heart, Junō finds himself hoping foolishly to receive the death he so deserves. For death, for being less than human, it is the flesh he has to kill, the flesh that has to die daily.
They both believe they can find what they want in each other.