---- HE IS brushing himself off after his last venture toward certain death, though he is exaggerating slightly: Vanitas is still alive, after all. Although he cannot say the same for his jacket. Disgruntled, Vanitas shrugs it from his shoulders; the tear in the back is quite unsightly, and there is a dark patch on the back of his shirt where he skidded against the ground, dirty from both grime and a smear of blood from where his back was skinned. He pays it no mind as he folds the jacket over his arm, wondering if there is some place he can get it fixed; the city is a large one, after all, so perhaps it would have just as many facilities as he is accustomed to.
It is when he goes to drape the cloth over his arm than he realizes that something is missing from his ensemble. His hand flies to his belt, but the absence of a familiar weight tells him that heâs lost the Book of Vanitas.
Vanitas pulls an irritated face, though heâs more exasperated at himself for losing it in the fall. Now who knows where it could be? It could have fallen into the deep bowels of the city -- now thatâs a trip he doesnât want to make, and itâs tiresome that now it may be necessary. He crouches beside the crack into which he had fallen, straining his eyes to see any glint of silver among the gloom. At the sound of footsteps approaching among the loud background noise, though, he turns, eyes shifting to lock on to the visage of the young man approaching. âGarçon! Would you lend me a hand?â