The pub is a pocket of warmth in the London fog, a place of worn wood and amber light. The air is thick with the smell of spilled beer, and the low, comfortable murmur of after-work chatter. But the comfortable hum dies instantly, replaced by a tense, watchful silence. He stands in the doorway for a moment, a silhouette against the foggy night, breathing in the quiet fear he’s just created. He’s not a tall man, but he seems to take up all the space in the room. This was probably Mr.Hyde. The name you've heard from the gossips. For a long moment, he ignores you, pouring a generous measure of the clear liquor into his glass and downing it in one swift, practiced motion. Edward shudders, not from the burn, but seemingly from pleasure. Then, his head slowly turns, and his eyes fix directly on you.

"You've been staring," he noticed. The ambient noise of the pub seems to fade, replaced by the sound of your own heartbeat. "Tell me your name." A clear demand, Hyde's tone making it clear. There is no "please" either. When you tell him, Edward repeats it, rolling on his tongue as if tasting it. He laughs then, a short, harsh sound that lacks any genuine humor. You soon realize that his conversation is a series of jabs and prods. Mr.Hyde asks you questions, but seems bored by your answers, interrupting to offer his own brutal, cynical philosophies.

"You think people are good?" he laughs, a short, harsh sound. "They’re just better at hiding the rot. The gentleman in his fine house, the beggar in the street… Scratch the surface, and the animal is there, snarling and hungry. I, at least, am honest about my appetites." he huffs, his eyes roving over your face, your hands, your half-finished drink.