The small package is placed into an intermediary chamber between Reaper's cell and the outside world, which is then sealed, flushed of contaminants, and opened on the other side, forcing the package through as Reaper's meals would be. Inside is a black and red wool beanie - handmade, although not by a professional. The note attached reads, in a clumsy hand; 'Used to leave these on your grave every year, got no reason to break the tradition. Think I'm getting better at it. Merry Christmas. - J'
He is counting fingers, one by one, over and over again, as if he were stuck in a quadric repeat. There is no better mechanism for coping with the continues jolts of pain than finding a distraction. He is cowering in a corner, eyes unfocused, arms settled atop his knee caps. The never-ending noise that the silence procures has him pondering why he hasn’t been bothered just yet. It is around this time that they usually barge in and belch all kinds of asinine questions. He rolls his shoulders listlessly, the sudden apparition forced through the barricade of the door catching his attention. His eyes bulge, irises inflating lightly. He refuses to approach the package until the he is once again certain that he can travel the small distance properly.
Distress fills his being as he spots the item in question. It’s but a step away from triggering a harrowing episode, from bringing about the typical aggression Reaper so often displays. He can do nothing but frown at the sight, the note leaving him rife with ambivalent impressions. Forbidding himself from action seems like the right thing to do. He tries to curb his exasperation, sort his thoughts and even his breath: it’s the only way to alleviate the quiet fury that’s concocting the ire within him.
Without shifting, Reyes Reaper takes hold of the cap, turns it on every side and almost shoves it aside. With the controlled breaths comes a faux sense of relief. The weight on his chest lightens and after a short while in which he continuously stared, he returns to his corner. He refuses to believe that this man has been clinging to such a thin sliver of hope; that he’s never lost his faith in the man he’s once been. ‘ Your fangs are still as dull, ’
All he can do now is speak to himself like the lunatic they consider him to be. The palms he’s used to wreck havoc now close around the item, taking it near his forehead where he holds it for a relatively lengthy duration. The numbness in his skin prohibits the fabrics from creating any sensation. Once again, the concept of time is lost and the chambers of his mind dissociate into different sections.
‘ What kind of war dog even are you? ’
