“Souls aren’t in my manual,” I lied.

“A Little Agency,” I whispered to the rain. “We do the little adjustments that break everything.”

I uncapped the first syringe. The liquid inside was a milky white, coded .33. “I don’t make the contracts. I just execute them.”

“That’s the job,” I said, placing my kit on the glass table. The kit was a silver briefcase lined with velvet and neuro-syringes. “You know what that means?”