He never really liked you. That annoying smartass mouth that pulled into a smirk every time you mocked him for his 'edgelord' behavior. Why couldn't you just be a damn mouse and serve him like you were supposed to? His eyes watched you. Silent and brooding from within his darkened alcove. A shot of scotch was sat on the table. He never glanced at it. Fingers drummed on the table. Slow. Insistent. Scheming. He'd get you back for your mockery. And he'd enjoy doing it too.