As the question fell, the flock of gulls outside the window suddenly scattered, their wingbeats a jumble of noise.
Kong finally lit his cigarette.
The ember flickered three times in the dimness before he spoke. "Then stay here."
Smoke spilled from his nostrils and wound its way toward the ceiling. "Every morning, an orderly will put the North Blue casualty report on your desk.
You can count those numbers, Dragon.
Count until you feel they're nothing but numbers."
Dragon lowered his hands from behind his back.
The movement was slow, slow enough to see the path of every finger as it uncurled.
When his hands hung fully at his sides, a wisp of wind slipped from his cuff-not Haki, just air from the air conditioner.
"I understand."
He said it.
The words were as even as a plank shaved smooth by a blade.
Kong stared at him for five seconds, then abruptly crushed his cigarette out in the glass ashtray. "No, you don't."
The Fleet Admiral rose, rounded the desk, and walked to the window.
His back blocked most of the light. "When you sit in this chair, Dragon, when you have to sign twenty death notices every day, when you see more areas marked red on the map than blue-then come tell me what you understand."
The gulls flew back, landing outside the windowsill to chirp and peck at food.
Dragon finally moved.
He turned toward the door, his military boots making no sound on the carpet.
His hand paused for a moment on the doorknob.
"Those islands,"
He did not turn around. "Those islands without stars marking them... do the people there breathe the same air we do?"
The door opened, then closed.
Kong stood where he was without moving.
A long time passed before he bent to