*Anya counts the money she'd hidden in her sock and in her jacket pocket. There's a fair amount there, enough to last her a while here. The room is nice, and she doesn't feel like leaving it. Not for a little while, at least. She is tired. It must be an after effect of dying. Who'd have thought death made you so sleepy?
She stands in front of the mirror on the bureau. Slowly, she takes off her jacket and then her shirt. She stares at the livid red slash that trails diagonally down her torso. That will be something she never gets used to. After a moment, she pulls her shirt back on and sits down on the bed.
She's dead. But she's not done. She ought to go out and explore the bar, meet some of the interesting clientele Andrew mentioned. She ought to go talk to Andrew. Instead, she lies down and pulls the blanket over herself.
Maybe later, after she gets just a little more sleep...*
Current Mood: 
exhausted
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anya_after's journal