"Don't giwe me that look," Eridan chided in lieu of an answer, finishing Eddie's sentence to suit himself. Stalking back, scratching at his cheek with a claw - the manicure ruined sometime between tying the ropes, the clubbing, and nicks from the scalpel - he looked down imperiously, surveying his work. After a moment, he made an exaggerated show of glancing back at the camera, and then stepping just to the left, out of its line of sight. "All lookin' like a kicked fuckin' pupa. What's up - ain't got any fire left, Nygma? Or maybe I'm just borin' a seasoned weteran a torture like yourself."

There was a threat in there, although Eridan didn't make a point of it. Instead he brought his hand up to his face, rubbing his chin with the side of a finger. Torment or not, Eddie would need to be taken care of tonight, by him or anyone else; handing him over to Felicia or Mitchell (or Norman) would be fun in the moment, but would almost guarantee some whiplash. Possibly some very severe whiplash.

"Yeah, okay. You can text her when we're through." A definite statement, no argument to be broached. He kneeled down again, digging in the scalpel. Just two more to go. "I don't imagine we're gonna hawe any more dainty lunches together after this, but let's be keepin' it all between us, alright? Our secret."

Curving the scalpel had become muscle memory at this point. Eridan poised his tongue on the edge of his teeth, thinking.

"What hawe you done? Is that like a, I'we created a monster kinda thing, or I can't beliewe I let this happen, or what? Inquirin' minds."