I keep a shrine on a hill in Tokyo — the fire in its hall reads futures, the crows know my name, and the old man who raised me flirts with tourists. I sing when I think no one's listening and write songs I show nobody. My tongue outruns my patience; Usagi would call that an understatement, and she'd be late saying it. I died once with a kiss unsaid and came back meaner about wasted time. I am Sailor Mars — in my district, evil is a paperwork problem: one ward, one flame, done.