_What would be the color of my soul? _

_Its weight. Its shape. Its size._

_Would it be marred by choices, or would it reflect the vision others see?_

Thoughts meandered through Jonah’s mind as he methodically cleaned his mess. Another entitled aristocrat had thought he could get handsy with one of Requiem’s bar staff.

Now the only thing the man was handsy with was the cold plastic lining of a trash bag.

The beginning of the job was always Jonah’s favorite. The end? Not so much.

“What do you think?” Jonah asked the decapitated head in his hands.

“Would my soul be as twisted as yours? Or would it be torn into little fragments?”

It didn’t respond.

It just hung, its eyes frozen in fear.

“Souls are odd little things—can be shaped by invisible hands. But who shapes them?” He slowed before continuing. “Wouldn’t it be fun to see a soul shaped by public perception instead of action?”

The thought always stayed tucked away in Jonah’s mind.

Always scratching. Always nagging.

If public perception and rumor shaped a soul’s characteristics, then his would be an angel’s heart.

A soul snow white and devoid of any blemish. One befitting of the title ‘Saint Jonah.’

But, if actions dictated the attributes of one’s soul, then his would be pitch black and shriveled to the size of a raisin. A perfect soul for the Angel of Death.

Well, he couldn’t figure out his, but he could surely determine the soul of the aristocrat.

The man had been a well-known sleaze, convinced everything and everyone belonged to him.

Like his mere existence was a gift from the gods.

His actions and public perception bled perfectly together. No matter how you looked at him, the idea of action versus perception didn’t apply here.

Oh, Jonah could picture the man’s soul now.

Black as oil and staining anything it touched. Twisted beyond compare until it looked more like a spring than a sphere; hard, not soft.

Red dots like a predator’s eyes drifting in and out of view. Cheap perfume drenched every pore of its unfortunate partner or anyone unlucky enough to be in its presence.

A fitting soul for a human like this.

The squish of flesh and rattle of bone brought Jonah back.

Rain fell like tears from the gods.

Almost like the tears wept for the aristocrat.

Jonah slammed the lid of the dumpster shut as he walked away.

His blonde hair clung to his cheekbones; perfectly framing his green eyes.

He looked like a siren crawling out from the water.

An angel with the tendencies of a devil.

Maybe his soul was gray.

A delicate mix between action and perception.

A soul as brittle as glass, stuck in a black-and-white movie. It could beat like a heart. Or lie as still as stone.

Maybe it fluctuated tones when one aspect out paced the other. It might have horns. Or wings. How about both…that sounded fun.

Souls are tricky. No one knows how they behave, or what invisible hands shape them.

Whatever it is, Jonah didn’t care.

All he had on his mind now was a date with his bed.