Edward followed the angle, his eyes magnetized to Eridan's motion. The lens glint grinned back at him, malicious and silent in its unstated voyeurism. His mouth dropped, the split lip shivering just enough to eke out more blood, the look of distress etched into his expression. It was a ruin predated: Doctor Frankenstein sitting, bound, before his creation -- except this new prodigal incarnation had a taste for memory. And memory could be so unsavory.

The sulking heat along the back of his neck, the iron humiliation, the indignity. The film reeling before his eyes.

Ampora wanted these hours. He wanted these hours forever.

"What have I done," he whispered. He spoke of Eridan. He spoke of this horror unfolding, of these heavy implications. He spoke of his ideal project, his favorite sculpture, suddenly acquiring an ambush of sentience. This clay could cut.

"I'll text her," he urged. "I'll do whatever necessary to deflect suspicion, Eridan, I'll protect you. But don't -- just don't --"

He couldn't finish the sentence, his eyes still on the camera.