Koumyou looks down at their hands, and then glances around them at the dining car. This is too exposed, too open, too bright, too likely to be overheard, even huddled over his wounded hand as they are.

His pain isn't some dark, important secret. But it's personal.

"Not here," he says finally, and reaches with his free hand to scoop up the sutra and his comb from the table. Koumyou doesn't try to reclaim his hand at all, he just moves to get up, jamming the sutra and comb into a back pocket of his jeans.