The food arrived.
Two plates piled high with eggs, sausage, bacon, black pudding, grilled tomatoes, beans, and toast. Steam rose from the plates, carrying the smell of grease and salt and something that might have been nostalgia.
Kyle picked up his fork, ready to eat.
Then he paused.
Viktor had already grabbed his fork in a massive fist and plunged it into the eggs like he was spearing a fish. The food disappeared into his mouth with alarming speed. He chewed twice—twice—and swallowed. Then he shoved a sausage in after it. Then half a slice of bacon.
He ate like he had been in a cave for most of his life. Like food was something to be conquered, not enjoyed. His metal teeth gleamed as they tore through the meat. Grease dripped down his chin. He didn't wipe it away.
Kyle watched, fascinated.
"It's fitting, honestly. His appearance matches his table manners."
