No? He'll keep it then, draped across his arm like a blanket, a memento earned for his new collection in this new space. Maybe he'll bury him in it one day. In the meantime: What do you do when a man with fishhooks for eyes smiles at you? You smile back, sweetly. One void staring into a deeper, darker void.

"I'm not sure I want you to know anything about me, actually." Only to be contrary, only because he gave his name to something like John once before and sold his soul for it. There's nothing in him left to give, no piece of this pretty little disobedient body that hasn't been pulped dry. He retreats, one backstep, two, toward the mouth of the alley. "Thanks for the fuck, though. You really do have a sweet little cunt."