Eat_your_dinner,_don't_be_rude. VIDEO

 Eat_your_dinner,_don't_be_rude. VIDEO

"He thinks he's protecting you," Wenzel murmured. "He thinks this is still a case. Still a conflict he can win."

He turned to Ariadne.

"It's not a conflict. It's a meal. And you, my dear... you're the main course."

He headed for the door. He stopped. He looked back.

"Oh, and Ariadne?"

She didn't answer. She couldn't.

He smiled.

"Don't let it get cold."

And he left.

He went downstairs. He stepped out into the rain. He walked past Finch's taxi, as the protocol of naturalness demands, without looking as if he hadn't sensed his presence. He turned the corner. He entered the alley where Veydril waited, beetles scurrying at his feet like loyal hounds of refuse.

"Is it ready?" Veydril asked, his voice as dry as crisp old paper.

Wenzel nodded. "She'll write the ending herself. They always do."

Veydril grinned, revealing his sharp teeth. "Good. The Queen likes her dessert warm."

Above them, in their apartment, Ariadne Vale sat frozen at her desk, staring at the finger in her saucer.

The coffee beside her had gone cold.

And yet, she didn't move.

Because some kind of hunger... is stronger than fear.

Outside, the rain relentlessly washed the street. Inside, the ink flowed. Somewhere, a child set the table. Somewhere, a mother hummed. Somewhere, a villain waited for you to take the first bite. Eat your dinner. Don't be rude. It's getting chilly.