3:03am, Friday the 10th October, 2132.

The monk looked across at Aiden from behind his steaming tea, where he nodded and sipped from his cup as the young man's central doubt was revealed. "You are lost," said Shinran as he peered outside at the green of the garden. "I was also lost once, but in a garden such as this I came to find myself. That is why I grew this one here, so that in a city of a billion souls there would be at least one place that could still remind us how things used to be."

"My memory is... Lost," Aiden told him. "Or at least the parts that led me here. Before I woke here, there are seven entire years of my life that continue to escape me and the enemies I made in those seven years, that I do not even remember, hunt me for whatever crime I comitted."

Shinran smiled at him and said, "let me tell you a small tale. One day, many years ago now, I met an immortal man. He was over 150 years old, and he was a wise man - you might even call him a monk, or a scholar of his own particular religion. This man had lost his hand and had since replaced it with a fist of metal and as we were talking he would wince as though in pain. I asked him if he was hurt and he told me that he was. He told me that sometimes he still felt pain in his hand that was no longer there, and that the pain was in the soul of that hand. I told him that such a thing was preposterous, that there was no such thing as the soul."

Shinran paused a moment to drink again and Aiden, who wanted to hear what would happen next, leaned forwards and insisted he continue. "He said that there was indeed, and that moreso he could prove it to me," said Shinran. "Can you guess how?"

Aiden thought for a moment, but then shook his head. "I can't," he admitted.

"He took a knife and made a cut in his arm," Shinran revealed. "He claimed that the cut in his flesh proved the existence of the soul because eventually his arm would no longer have that wound, just as his soul did not have that wound. Moreover, he claimed that it was the duty of the flesh to protect the soul and that when he used the knife, if the flesh was not there to receive the wound, it would have been the soul itself that was wounded."

Aiden sighed slightly. "I apologize, Shinran, but I do not fully understand the meaning of your story," he said. "Also, his words don't make much sense."

"Not all words have to make sense, Aiden," said the monk, who was slightly irritated by the interruption. Still, he continued to speak. "He said that when he received the blow that caused his hand to be lost, it was the flesh of his hand sacrificing itself for the hand's spirit. That way, he claimed, when he became a spirit himself, he would still have two hands to use."

"I'm still not sure I understand," said Aiden. "Are you saying that my memories were lost to protect my soul?"

"Not your soul, but your mind. There may be no such thing as the soul," said Shinran. "Still, the man believed that even though his soul would be whole, the spirit of his hand would never be as ideal as it would have been if he still had the flesh he had lost. Because of that, he spent years searching for his hand, or for methods to heal it."

"And did he? Find it, or heal it?" Asked Aiden.

"I don't know," replied the monk. "My point is that by the philosophy of that man, your mind will never be complete unless your find the memories that you lost."

Aiden sighed slightly and said, "I knew this already. I've been trying to find them."

Shinran laughed and rubbed the back of his head. "I suppose I could have gotten to the point a little sooner, but there may still be hidden lessons to discover in that tale," he said.

Suddenly a thought crossed Aiden's mind and a question rose from it that made him watch Shinran cautiously. "Monk, was that story true?" He asked.

The monk nodded and drank from his tea again. "Of course it was. Why?" He replied.

"You said that the man was a century and a half old," Aiden said. "That he was immortal. How is that possible?"

Shinran glanced at Aiden curiously, then shrugged. "Why would it not be?" He asked. "We have known the secrets to immortality for quite some time now. Immortality is similar to a martial art - it requires constant practice and discipline, and most people either do not fully understand it, or they do not care about it, or they do not commit to it. If you wish to prolong the life of your body you must take steps to maintain it, to look after it. Money is also a factor, I suppose. Why do you think it's so rare for the head of a corporation to die, or for someone who's extremely wealthy to die except in violence or an accident?"

Aiden looked down. "I don't think I can die to even them," he admitted. "You would not believe me if I told you what injuries I've sustained these past few days, and how pain has become nothing more than a fleeting feeling; a serious injury not even worthy of concern."

"You don't look injured," said Shinran. "Of course medical technology is now extremely advanced, and there are even cybernetics to aid with the closing and healing wounds, but you do not look to be augmented."

"I'm not, at least not that I'm aware. I have... Considered the possibility of nanotechnology, but I don't think even the most advanced of it could allow me to do what I can do."

Shinran leaned back slightly, and asked, "what is it, exactly, that you can do?"

Aiden put down his cup of tea, then placed his finger between his teeth and bit down - hard - until white blood ran down his hand and began dripping to the ground. Then he held up his wound and Shinran watched without fear or shock as the bleeding ceased and the bite began to close and seal itself as though there had never been a wound at all.

"Your blood. It's not red," the monk said, looking at where it now stained the floor of his home.

"I can't explain it," Aiden admitted.

"The only explanation is that it is not blood at all. Or not blood as we know it."

"I had wanted at first to go to a hospital, to find a doctor who could tell me what was wrong. I ended up in one anyway, but I did not get time to ask questions."

The monk smiled, then from inside his robe he pulled out a small screen. Aiden recognized it as a model that had been old seven years ago, but Shinran seemed perfectly content with its age, and he scrolled and tapped with his finger until something lit up. "Here," said the monk, who placed the screen down on the floor between them and turned it so that Aiden could see.

It displayed a portrait of a young asian man named Zhan Xinyue, who lived in apartment number 1081 of the Aoi-Tori Apartment Building in downtown Fukaya.

"Who is he?" Aiden asked.

"A doctor," said Shinran. "And no ordinary one either. He might be able to help you."

Aiden looked at the man's picture as though trying to tell if he could be trusted on that alone. "Why are you helping me so much?" He asked.

"Why not?" The monk replied. "You've done no harm to me, and helping you is hardly costing me anything."

"Thank you, Shinran," said Aiden, who slowly stood to his feet. "Can you tell me where the Aoi-Tori Apartment Building is?"

"Not far at all," replied Shinran. "Perhaps twenty minutes away. Walk towards the gravroad east of here, then follow the road under it going south. You'll not miss this building, it's on the far side of the road and has black windows, with the name of it in neon blue across the outside of the tower."

Aiden nodded to him. "One day I will repay your kindness," he said.

"I assume you are not staying, then?" Shinran asked.

"I can't."

Aiden left the old monk in his small temple paradise, his island garden in a sea of concrete and metal. He left through the same gate he came in, then began to follow the residential side-streets through the maze of buildings that had brought him there. He was motivated, almost excited, by the prospect of finally meeting someone who might understand what had happened to him - by the very idea of a doctor who could help him and not throw him to the wolves who snapped at his heels.

Yet still he was alert, and as he walked those unpopulated streets he kept his head low so that his face was a little harder to see. He could hear the revving of ancient bike engines in the distant and wondered if it was the Kumo gang still on the prowl or just a coincidence. Soon he had his answer.

"Do you think that's him?" A voice asked from somewhere behind him. It was barely more than a whisper and it belonged to a man sitting on a bike that was not loud and violent, but silent, and that hummed and whirred with the subtlety of an electronic engine.

"I don't know, maybe," whispered another voice, on another, similar bike. "But he's not a Mukade, are we really gonna bother with some random guy?"

"You've seen the listings, man."

"Tsch, fine. Let's do this quick and quiet."

"We've found him. On the road by the old temple."

Aiden kept walking, kept looking ahead of him and acting as though he had no idea the bikers were there. He heard the increased intensity of their whirs and the kick of the tires spraying water from the wet road, and soon he could hear them riding towards him at speed. There was a metal sound then... But what was it? A gun? No, they would have shot him by then if it had been a gun... What then?

Aiden realized what the sound was just before they reached him and as though he was a mouse suddenly disturbed he leaped up in the air - higher than he had ever jumped before - and looked down to see the biker swiping a long, metal pole beneath him. Aiden kicked down, both feet planting into the side of the first biker's side so that his entire bike toppled and slid across the road, and then, still in the air, he turned. The second biker had a japanese sword, a katana he waved in the air like a fool, but Aiden had no time or ability to react before the blade siced through his side and its wielder sped on past him.

"Yo, you good man?!" The second biker called to the first, who lay on the ground groaning some meters away and trying to get free of his bike. Aiden hit the ground with a loud thud, his hands planting against the wet sidewalk to steady himself.

"Shit," Aiden mumbled as he heard the biker turning his bike around to examine the damage he had done. Aiden pushed himself up again and turned to face the man, whose helmet obscured his face, but his red and black leathers confirmed what he had already suspected - he was one of the Kumo.

"How the fuck are you still standing?" The biker called out, but didn't wait for an answer before he rode at Aiden again and swang his katana with timing that could have severed his head. Aiden rolled beneath it, then as the bike came to a halt behind him he ran over to where the other had dropped his metal pole and tookit from the ground. Then Aiden turned, standing directly in the middle of the road with the pole held tightly in his right hand, and his posture wide and full of challenge.

"You wanna play?" The biker asked. "Okay, let's go."

The bike went zooming towards Aiden again, who raised the pole as though he planned to defend against the sword, and the biker responded by swinging his weapon to meet it. Yet Aiden didn't. As the sword came in with its wide, swinging, outside arc, Aiden merely dropped the pole and dived right through to the inside. He clashed with Kumo's unguarded body, and together they toppled over with the bike and went rolling and sliding until the biker was flung into the glass of a nearby building and his bike was broken around a reinforced lamppost.

Aiden groaned on the roadside, a piece of shrapnel from the bike piercing the side of his body. He gripped it tightly with one hand and yanked it from his flesh with a difficult yell, then lay there as he felt his wound knit itself closed. Slowly, he pushed himself back to his feet again and turned to look if anyone had seen what he did. They had.

"Shit," Aiden mumbled, as ten more Kumo sat on their bikes and watched him from the end of the road.