Ren was eating a meat bun when we told him.
He took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Set the remaining half down on the paper wrapping with the careful deliberateness of a man buying time.
"Define 'connections,'" he said.
"The kind you use when you need information that doesn't exist in official records," I said. "The kind that involves people who owe you favors, or people you owe favors to, or people who simply know things and are willing to share them for the right price."
Ren looked at the half-eaten bun. Then at me. Then at Kaien, who had his arms folded and was watching with the expression of a man who had just been informed that someone had been quietly operating a second career under his nose.
"I run messages sometimes," Ren said finally. "For certain people. When the work is straightforward and the pay is good."
"For which people?"
A pause. "Several."
"Ren."
