You're accusing me of poor taste, doctor. I actually wouldn't argue that.

[ Midnight leans in as well, elbow on the bar, hand flat as he presses down for balance. ]

But I think you want me to know exactly who you are. At the rate I'm going, it's inevitable, isn't it? Might as well rip off the bandage. My little illusion of you can't last forever.

[ ... ]

Well? Go on. Make the worst thing happen. Please.