He can sneak around. Of course he can. Nobody's looking at him twice.

It's almost funny, in that glossy, sharp-edged way that things can be funny if you don't think about it too hard. Yoshiki goes ahead and lets his thoughts be nice and soft, fuzzy at the borders.

"You can't do it at my house anymore, now that I know about it." It's a mild warning, and not too serious. What does he care what anybody drops off at that place? "But maybe if you're lucky, you don't have to bother about it."