César's has only seconds of reassurance that his things and his vest will be handled. Then Watson asks the dreaded questions, and his hand stills in his left breast pocket. Slowly, quietly, César pulls out a ticking pocket watch.

"She picked up broken glass from a wine bottle. Told me to slit her throat in the middle of Topy. I suggested the morgue instead, so that no one would have to see. But I had to know the truth of it. To know if we would really be expected to sometimes kill each other to survive. If she was bluffing, she'd back out... but she never did."

Early 1900s rolled gold with a simply embossed cover—a women's pocket watch, not that he knows. He pushes the crown to pop the lid open to reveal the face and a picture of himself with his parents and young Rex on the other side. César watches the movement.

It's all a telling delay tactic. His wide eyes search desperately between the face and the photograph. Eyes so focused, he can avoid seeing either his companion's reactions.

"Fucking hell, you look like you're about to cry. I'm doing you a damned favor at this point. Stop being such a fucking virgin on his wedding night and do it!" Word for word, he repeats hers, all but the last two words lacking any of the emotion, and then as he continues, his hands begin to tremble. "Her left carotid artery. She wasn't bothered. Had no fear. She was used to dying, and didn't think to warn me about all the blood. And then Friday, she called me dramatic, just cared about the convenient clean up compared to the jewelry store...."

César abruptly pushes the watch's crown down and closes it before setting it slowly down and away from him. His throat and chest are tight, his mouth open as he stares out into nothing in horror. Not only had he done it, but the action had meant nothing to his victim.

"The only person who felt like they suffered was me. What the fuck?!"