"Hold me close, don't let go, watch me burn...In this Hospital for Souls."
"...the one thing that is absolutely awful about being a reaper is the eyesight problems that come with it, he has decided.
Even now, in the sunlight (the accursed sunlight, almost burning through his excuse for a skin), holding the stupid list two inches from his damn face, he is still having difficulty reading the names.
"Jarrod Fineman," he murmurs aloud, still squinting at the paper. "Aged twenty five. Died on the 12th of March, 1894; cause of death... butter knife to the heart." His nose wrinkles as he connects the dots; the butter knife with the butler, the butler with the demon, the demon with the earl. It was evident - a business deal gone wrong, which had resulted in Jarrod's rather ignorant move to attempt to shoot Ciel Phantomive.
The demon had moved without hesitation; the reaper had watched as he tore the man's throat open, while at the same time skewering him in the chest. Phantomhive looked on, completely unfazed, as the crimson blood pooled on the floor of the magnificent palace that he liked to call a mansion. Afterwards, he cleared his throat, and said to the butler:
'Clean it up. I have other business to attend to."
Sebastian Michaelis had bowed dutifully at the waist, his demeanor totally serious. "Yes, my Lord."
He had watched as Michaelis so very carefully mopped the floor, almost as if he were in cheerful ignorance about the corpse in front of him. He could not have known about the reaper in the room with him already, with his own strict expression, his wicked scythe in the form of a heavy axe. Watching him, ever moment that had unfolded, whilst judging the dead man secretly.
He had already sent him to Hell..."
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