Yasha stared down at his green jacket. The jacket with the sheep wool trim, the jacket with the multitude of incredibly useful pockets. The jacket he’d purchased during his first week in Djisi three years ago and cherished ever since. In the harsh light of the morning the damage was inescapable. Tears from broken glass, singed holes where droplets of phantasma fuel had burned through the outer fabric and soaked into the lining. Splotches of blood.