Sam would call it kawaru. He had always been so enamored of things Japanese, aping their attitudes and manners. The Japanese corporate society liked to pretend that metahumans didn’t exist, casting them away to rot on the edges of society and to dwell in the polluted shadows of those gleaming corporate towers. The pure stayed home, safe from taint. Secure in their bastions. they ate their regular, balanced meals, slept in their soft, warm beds in their precisely controlled climates, watched their approved entertainments, and ignored what they wished did not exist. Those hypocritical overlords spoke of financial aid, readjustment programs, and subsidized communities, while shipping what they considered refuse to the hell they called Yomi. They had seduced Sam from her. Yes, he would refer to her as a kawaruhito, if he referred to her at all.