"You can say that again," Felix mutters under his breath, the notes of dissatisfaction in his tone still ringing clearly, even when his voice itself was unintentionally muted. He cradles his phone in his hand, a coffee in the other, and slides a calloused thumb over the glass of the touch-screen.     He's scrolling through a hefty note on his phone, flicking through it rapidlyâ one that he had deliriously typed out during the tribulation of his daily migraine. The note he had used was jokingly ( morbidly ) titled 'GROCERY SHOPPING LIST'.  In reality, it was a checklist, of sorts, that contained a twenty-some names; all names were paired with a time, a date, a location.    Just looking at it makes him tired. It was his job, and his job a l o n e, to reap all individual souls that were doomed to perishâ by their own hands, no less. The only thing that kept him going was that he only worked with suicides ( with the exception of a murder, maybe even manslaughter, on the occasion ), which averaged about forty per day.       She really should be glad it's not her job.    But with a single touch, he could make it so, if he should desire it.    And, boy, does he desire.   Â
