Damn it, he was too early for lunch.

He sat alone at the double booth. It was 6:30 a.m., not another soul within sight excluding behind the counter. Between his fingers was a silver soup spoon. He rubbed the smooth surface, twirling it around each finger, watching his own reflection appear and fade each time it went around. It was mesmerizing, the spoon. With his other hand he rubbed his throat, the burning pain denying the touch.

He knew why it was like that. Again, the last few moments, the last blissful seconds before his death, told him very little but very valuable information.

"You're going to say something."

I was…

His throat ached to feel words slide past them. But there was nothing to say now.

Should I ask the waitress why she's taking so long? Should I ask what day it is? Should I comment on one's suit and tie?

He scoffed to himself. Petty comments like those were exactly why he stayed so silent. There was nothing he needed to say. But that one night…if he had only been given a moment more, his throat would've had the pleasure. He had cut him off.

"Here's your tea, Sir."

Anthony looked up at the heavy waitress sharply. She smiled at him weakly, setting a cold glass of iced tea in front of him.

"Are you sure that's all you want?"

Anthony's gaze lingered on her a moment longer before turning his stare down to the glass. He could hear her disappointed sigh, the swish of her dress, and the sounds of her steps walking away.

Damn whore. You think I don't know what I want?

What DO you want?

He touched the side of the glass, wiping the sweat onto his fingertip and leaving a clear imprint behind. He picked up the glass and took a drink, finally feeling comfort inside his dry throat. Setting his glass down, the words of his other self lingered in his mind.

What DO you want?

I want her. I want her…

Well, she's gone, isn't she?

He tipped the glass over, hearing the shatter of the glass on the hard floor. He heard her bustle over, bending over to clean up the mess. Anything she said wasn't important. He stared out the window, the sky covered with a sheet of grey clouds, whatever sun behind it shining through in starved rays. A light drizzle was likely.

He stood up, ignoring the still stirring woman beside his table. The muffled silence was finally broken as she straightened up to look at him.
            "You can't go without your tab, Sir." Her eyes were stern. Anthony's own azure beauties tensed at the words. He blinked slowly, his jaw moving to the right and clenching tightly. Her eyebrows creased in confusion, then fell back in fright. Her pink cheeks went red and she looked at the floor, her arms shaking slightly. She stepped away, mumbling once more.

He glided across the floor, the diner still empty of customers and the remaining small pieces of the broken glass hiding under the table, ones she had missed. He pressed out the door, not feeling the slight chill. Cold cannot feel cold.

His dark shoes made soft taps on the pavement. They were alone. Cold was alone. If that sword had still been there, this walk would've been impossible. The minutes stretched into longer, indefinite measures of time. Time must've passed, otherwise the mansion wouldn't have loomed before his person. His walking slowed to a stop, his eyes wandering over the premises, his lips shutting closed in focus. A streak of lightning followed by a rumble of thunder did not make him jump.

He's in there.

He shifted his feet a little.

She's in there.

One hand felt the inside of his pants pocket for some comfort. His other touched the hilt of the blade behind his belt.

Go get what you want. Finish this.

He pulled his hand out of his pocket, looking behind him once, and then walked towards the manor.