For some reason, many people believe that my colleagues in the shop have a hard heart. They, they say, are not able to empathize with the grief of others, and they themselves are stingy with emotions. Professional personality deformation, like that of surgeons or executioners. Soulless creatures, cold, like fish. This is a delusion. Beneath the harsh, scarred shell lurks a tender, pliable flesh that can easily be wounded by a careless word, a sidelong glance, an inappropriate cough, bad manners, foul breath, or simply a gloomy fuck looming before the bright eyes of these wonderful people with a fine mental organization. They are by no means recluses, as is commonly believed, and easily make contact once you touch the right strings within. And, rest assured, your grief, your pain, your tears will definitely evoke their childishly sincere emotional response. And all because they love life and know its value. My name is the Collector, I am a bounty hunter, and this is my story.