[To carry on with a metaphor, the book of Giorno is a strange one. It's a book whose text is written overtop the scribbled-over story of another boy's life. Giorno was another boy once, but he's the one who dropped his own story into the mud, scratched it out harshly with night-blank ink, and changed his own reality to match a brand new story of his invention.]

[It's hard to be both creative and destructive force in one--not that he'd tell anyone. And not that it'd show to most people. But the way his gaze flicks from Sans and away and then back again shows impossibly quick thought despite all his obvious exhaustion.]

There are so many abandoned buildings here. I know of . . . two warehouses, one gym. It would take me a bit to make sure any of those were secure.

[By which he means: break into and steal them. Steal a warehouse. Maybe several. He glances at the ceiling, doing some quick mental math.]

A maximum of four hours, should I encounter resistance of some kind.