Chiaro looked outside. It was a little lighter, mostly because the moon had grown and was a very pale orange-yellow. In any other realm, the sun would have been up and shining, but the moon stood in its place. The gas lamps were lit a bit brighter, glowing over the streets in heavier tones of light and shadow. For the longest time Chiaro stared at the papers before him, going over them twice, three times, stopping to think about what he read. Stopping, still, to contemplate the man whose soul he had stolen. His body had been all but consumed by decay, a shell walking and coughing and fighting. As the windows flanking the entrance door lightened, just a bit, Chiaro had his answer.
The man’s soul had been forced from his body while he was still alive. Forced, not taken. Forcing one’s soul from the living body, instead of willing it out of its home, causes fast-spreading decay to take over the body, preserving the organs but doing massive damage. It degenerates the health, but strengthens the person. Chiaro nodded. He had no soul, of course, which is how he could extract those from others without feeling remorse for them. But he had willingly given up his soul, to be free of those bothersome emotions. He was still alive, in a sense. Once one goes to Hell, it’s hard to tell.
He sat back in his chair, shredding the papers. The contents were already in his mind, he didn’t need them anymore. From under his shirt, he pulled something into view. It was on a bronze string, and a small bottle hung on the end. The contents were black, swirling as a mist. His soul was silent, and sometimes it would create a human shape before dissipating back into a formless mass. He had had it for at least ten years, since he had decided to leave Hell and trade souls. Some he personally transported them there, as long as the devils or demons sought his assistance. But he had decided to keep his soul, for reasons he didn’t fully understand. It hardly mattered, since it was not subject to degeneration like many others in hold by simple glass or crystal bottles. Like the souls Chiaro collected, using his own specially-made bottles, the soul was perfectly preserved and well alive.
The door knob turned, and Chiaro hid the soul again. Jumping up, he strode to the door and glanced out the window. It was a familiar man, with a strange, semi-permanent smile, and Chiaro slid the lock aside. The door opened, and his acquaintance stepped inside. “Chiaro.” He said, the smile oddly out of place in comparison to the solemn tone of his voice. “My brother, your soul-trade client, was murdered. You have to come with me, now.”