[ It turns out that the Cavallone family — like China's economic growth and the sex tape-addled young adulthood of child pop stars — never quite picked up the subtleties of a graceful fall.

He doesn't so much land on his derriere as he abides by his contractual obligation to transform every Varia floor into the stage of his battered and bruised tragedy. He falls. He whines. He whimpers. He takes the little stool with him, legs tangling with the chair's. He whines again, possibly with feeling, though likelier out of contractual obligation with the known universe.

And he prioritises, barely lifting his head to peer not at Xanxus but at the untroubled bottle of whiskey beside him. Good, good. Mustn't upset the liquor.

His head falls back on the floor with a gentle thud, life and its countless inconveniences passing before his eyes along with the bone-deep surety that somewhere out there, Reborn knows. And points. And laughs.

His sigh's a deep thing, claws his chest. (Figures.) ]

You know, Xanxus. [ What a nice ceiling. He should stare at it more. ] You know... that wasn't very nice of you. [ And lightly: ] I'm a guest in your home, trusting your hospitality. And this is what I get.