xxv) Teddy Bear
Crowley detests kids, even the homeless brats who make deals. This one's jeans were ripped at the knees and a teddy dangled by his side, red stiches barely keeping its arm attached.
"What do you want? A playpen?" Crowley carelessly waves his hand. "Anything your filthy little heart desires."
"My mom for my most valued possession," the kid pronounces, "whatever that means."
"It's a soul, not a teddy bear," Crowley shrugs. "Try again in ten years, kiddo."
He vanishes without a second thought but, when a lady took the kid in the next day, Crowley would refuse to claim involvement.