The bed springs creaked as Soul stood up. "Who is this?" he demanded, clenching the phone harder.

"No one you need to know," the voice purred.

"Then what's this talk about bringing Maka back?" he questioned skeptically.

"Oh, just something I thought you should be told. That there is a way to bring Maka back. You have to follow my instructions quickly and efficiently if you ever want to see your precious meister again."

"What do you want?" he asked, leaning in Maka's doorway.

"I want you to forfeit your status," the voice answered, an evil grin audible in its voice.

"You want—."

"I want your souls, Soul. All one hundred. By tomorrow at noon. Deposit them behind the alley of Chupa Cabras and I'll give you something you're going to need."

Soul closed the door to Maka's room, the click sounding loud in the quiet apartment. The tension was palpable, like a fist in Soul's stomach. He ran a hand through his damp hair, hesitating as he reached the back of the dirty, cream colored strip of gauze wrapped around his head. "Alright. But if you're screwing with me, your soul is mine," Soul declared.

"Very good, Soul. Very good," the voice said, and the call ended.

Soul's arm dropped to his side, holding the cell phone in his left hand. He could be making the biggest mistake of a lifetime. Every scrap and section of media told him dead people never came back. Ever.

But what if they were wrong?

What if there was a way to get Maka back?

He collapsed at the kitchen table, holding his head in his hands, crimson eyes staring through the table. In theory, it could work. Death means that the soul has left the body. What if he returned the soul to the body? This could be exactly what the stranger was offering him. Perhaps Maka could be returned to him in a matter of days.

"Scythe-y boy! Wake uuuuup! Blair is bored!" a lighthearted, flirtatious voice called, and Soul opened his bleary eyes. He had fallen asleep at the table, a glob of drool hanging off his chin. Blair waltzed towards the stove, clad in only an apron and panties, swinging a spatula through the air.

"Now Maka isn't here to make you breakfast, so I'm going to, okay?" she declared, throwing open the cabinet doors.

"Blair, not now. I'm busy," Soul mumbled, wiping the drool off his chins with his shirt sleeve and slinking off his seat to shuffle towards his room.

"But Souuuuuul! If you don't eat soon it'll be lunch time!" Blair whined, bottom lip protruded and quivering.

"What?" he asked, wheeling around, the dark circles underneath his eyes making his expression appear more angry than surprised.

"Nyah! It's 11:30! You slept so late, Soul! I was so lonely!" she moaned, throwing herself at him.

"Blair! I have something really important I have to do. This. Is. Not. Cool!" he yelled, prying the sexy kitty off him.

"Fine. Then Blair will have lunch ready for when you get home," she winked, returning to her spot in front of the stove. "Don't worry, Soul! It'll be delicious!"

"Right, Blair," Soul stated flatly, swiping his motorcycle keys from the counter and shoving his student ID in his pants pocket. Sure, perhaps he still wore his funeral attire from yesterday, but Lord Death would not likely care. He wore the same thing every day.

Soul threw on his motorcycle goggles, snapping the band around his head. He adjusted the lens, the bright light of morning burning his eyes. "Crappy day to stop being a death scythe," he mumbled, dress shoes slamming on the pedals and black tie whipping back in the wind. At least his red dress shirt was no longer soggy.

First stop, the DWMA.