[ There's a microscopic tension in his shoulder. He's not a cuddly person—it's rare that he's touched without intent to injure or kill. Even here, he sleeps sitting upright with his back pressed against the wall of his small flat and faces the door.

But the drink helps relax those tightly wound instincts, so he takes another sip and eases up. She can stay if it helps soothe her. And like this, maybe he could even learn to enjoy someone's proximity, though it doesn't cure the melancholy in his voice. ]

...I don't think death is a gateway to peace, no. [ It'd be nice if it was. ] But I did expect it to be the end of something, at least.

[ The finale of one book and the beginning of another. But it's more like a retelling of the same story: though the words are all changed, the meaning beneath them is no different from before. So what now? ]

I'd like to do something about it all. Though right now it's just amounted to hoarding. [ The more money he makes and sequesters in his pocket, the less of it is out there, in the hands of someone who might care less. ] I don't know if there's a way to... undo the soul-forging process.