"I'm not dead," John confirms with a surety in his voice like if there was one thing he was confident about, it was the fact that he's supposed to be still alive.

"I had a bit to drink last night," he adds while scratching his nose, eyes drifting a bit. Just small fidgets, little manifestations of avoidant behaviour because he doesn't like arguing about his drinking.

"Not enough to kill me. And besides, I wouldn't be here if I was dead." There's a line for his soul. A very long, solemn procession of enemies, ex-lovers and people he couldn't save wanting to torment him over his mistakes. They'd have pulled him into the hell he knows as soon as he drew his last breath.