"Correct on all counts. Normally," he explains, slipping his hands into the pockets of his short robe, despite the groceries in one and the gunk still clingng to the other. It won't be the first or last time that he's covered in something barely identifiable. It was practically de rigeur for any shinigami, although he was not actually an active one.

"A living person does not have any reiryoku to speak of. Only the smallest amount. But some individuals do have some. When their souls are in danger, it reacts to that danger. Someone in my position can sense that. Formerly, I was a shinigami. A god of death."

He lifts his chin to nod toward the Bramford Building as they approach, an older apartment building, in need of a coat of paint and a lot of repair. "That's me. Appropriate, yeah?"