(younger, talking to Ryoma at a club, drinking together) Look, there he is. That cocky son of a bitch. Drowning out his sorrows in cheap women and expensive liquor. Fuckin' hate drug pushers, man. All politics. Everywhere, politics. This, that, do it my way, make sure these addicts... get it right because suddenly, a bunch of dopeheads have standards. You know, the same people who all live in dilapitated houses, fifty people at a time, just... Oh man, imagine the stench! Hohoho. Always someone just begging for a taste fucking shit up for everybody, all fucked up all the time, can't rely on nothing and no one. Buncha junkies, buncha shit. Buncha... stress.

(older) When I was a boy, I had someone I cared about. We never found out why, but somehow, someone knew, and there we were, tied to chairs, no clothes, no nothing. Nothing but fear. I remember, this guy, the leader of that whole operation, he leaned down and met me face to face, and he said: "We all go to hell, kid. There's no shortage of sinners in the world. We all feast on others to survive. Catch yourself slipping and you'll find the world eating at you inside. And you... have slipped." What a line. A true poet... And not even a minute later, they killed him. Horrible business, but it comes for us all. Death always does. Some meet it sooner than others.

(older) We kill, rob and survive. That's how it is for people like us, people like you and me. To live is to suffer, but to survive, is to find meaning in suffering, the words to describe the feeling. Those who fall would never understand. They all die young. Me? I'm still here, and will always be, and I am the last thing you will ever see before the light in your eyes fade away one last time.