As with most things, Anton Hawke-Next approached death with the most interest he could muster. After all, it was an opportunity for growth, wasn't it? He knew he would be back and he knew he could never tell if he would get this particular chance again.

Admittedly, though, it's been more difficult to muster enthusiasm than he would have liked.

He's alive again now, though, and in an uncharacteristically subdued mood. He knows he has a habit of overthinking things, but he still can't quite seem to stop trying to figure out why anyone would do this to him, how it could have happened, what exactly he may have done wrong if karma exists and this is his punishment --

He's found a relatively out-of-the-way room somewhere in the mansion and an armchair upon which he can curl up and devote his time to all of this thinking. For anyone who knows him, the first indication that he's not really feeling up to his usual standards of cheerfulness should be the fact that not a single article of his clothing is coloured; it's all black or white or grey. He's got his chin in his hand, his elbow supported by an arm of the chair, and his eyes focused on the opposite wall, expression thoughtfully blank.

If anyone wants to speak to him, he would likely welcome distraction. There are also certain people he would very much like to see.

*he's in a better mood than he has been for a long time, and it shows, because he can't stop it -- there's a smile constantly threatening*

*he's curled up in an armchair somewhere, chin resting in his hand, occasionally stopping to scratch something out (they call this style of handwriting "chickenscratch") in the notebook which is open in his lap -- occasionally he'll stop, as if remembering something, and just grin before returning to the task at hand*

*feel so very free to bother him*