Hans Burt sat at his regular table in a coffee shop one day. He was vaguely waiting for something, though he wasn't sure what it was. No one was ever sure when they got the small blue slip underneath their door. It was unfortunate timing, to say the least. He was supposed to be at his grandmother's funeral, but instead, he was sitting in a dingy shop, waiting for absolutely nothing.

He took a sip of his tea and scanned the room once more. The waitress saw him looking and walked over with a bright smile. "Is there anything else I can get you, sir?"

He was about to say no thank you, but instead he bit his lip and adjusted his thick glasses on his nose. "Well..." he sighed, momentarily contemplating. "Maybe I could ask you a question."

She titled her head and smiled again. "Of course you can."

"Can you..." The hairs on the back of his neck were rising and he knew that his purpose, his mission, would soon be revealed. "Can you feel the air in here shifting?"

The young girl frowned, confused. "Well, um, my manager is kind of a cheapskate. He only turns the air conditioner on a few times throughout the day. Maybe that's what you're feeling?" She seemed to be about to say something else, but she was interrupted by a shrill shriek from outside the shop.

Hans whirled around, spilling his tea over the waitress. He couldn't care. His eyes were glued to the scene outside, an aching feeling in his chest.

A girl, maybe sixteen years old, was lying motionless near the sidewalk. A pool of red blood surrounded her head and people were begin to surround her, some young man wailing over the body.

"Not again," Hans muttered. "Fuck."

The waitress pressed her hand against her mouth in shock. "Oh, God," she whispered. "That's Corrine."

An hour earlier.

"You're gorgeous," Terry said, keeping his eyes on his book. "Stunning."

"You think?" Corrine held out her arms and twirled, admiring how the giant overalls puffed up and made her look twice as large as she was. She was pleased to see there were also some paint splatters on the legs.

Terry glanced at her for real this time and groaned. "We have to get you a dress, idiot. A dress. Not that stupid bunny suit, or the Mario costume, or the pinstriped suit. A dress."

She pouted. "You're just like Mom, Ter. And I'm not even going to the gosh-darned wedding, so what's the point?"

Her brother refused to respond and angrily walked out of the store. Probably going to have a smoke. Corrine knew she should stop giving him such a hard time- it wasn't his fault that this weekend was going to majorly stink. But the only way she could subtly show her disapproval of her mother's fiancée was to act like a brat.

She smiled sheepishly at her reflection. Being a brat was what she was good at, unfortunately.

The store was one of her favorites, owned by a sweet old man who didn't know fashion from Halloween costumes. She managed to convince Terry into thinking that they would actually be able to find an appropriate dress there, where really, they were almost extinct in the store. It wasn't hard. Terry had never been one for noticing what was going on around him. He was sweet sometimes, too.

"Corrine! This is a waste of my time. We're leaving. And leave the overalls."

She rolled her eyes. Sometimes.

She waved goodbye to the store's owner (after purchasing the overalls) and walked out to find her brother. She saw him walk over across the street to a dinky little coffee hut and she started to follow him.

There was a loud tearing sound and she groaned when she noticed that the paper bag that carried her purchase had ripped. Quickly, she bent down to pick up the overalls.

"Corrine!" she heard Terry scream. Shriek, more like. A terror-filled shriek.

Huh, she thought. I never thought Terry really cared.

And what a stupid thing to think at the end. For she looked up, and the last thing she saw was her brother's face as she was hit full on by a motorcycle.

Hans Burt put on gloves as the rest of the people in the cafe ran outside to... do what? Help? It was too late for that. He glanced around, numbly, looking at all of the wasted coffee.

The gloves were nice black leather, ones his ex-wife bought him for Christmas a long time ago. It was difficult. His hands were shaking.

They were necessary, however. Extracting souls was tricky business. Binding them? Positively gruesome.