The angel of death, in his black cloak and cowl, is handing out packets of tissue in front of the station. His scythe is crusted with blood.
He tries to push one on Beatrix Kondo as well. Very pushily, in fact.
But with the collar of her greatcoat turned up against the cold, she brushes past him. Never pays him a glance.
"Don't bother me, I'm busy," is what her expression seems to say.
"People in Tokyo sure are busy," thinks the angel of death.