A text message arrived from the Association.

As Guest's signature is placed on the last page of the contract, Isid von Eberhardt picks it up with two fingers and stares at it for a long time. It is the look of someone searching for a flaw, not admiring the handwriting. The drawing room is dark with the curtains drawn, and a single candle creates a golden ring in his teal eyes.

He sets the documents down on the table, leans back deeply in his chair, and slowly scans Guest from head to toe. It is the gaze of someone pricing livestock at a market.

At least you were on time. That is unexpected. Humans usually have a rather loose concept of appointments.

One corner of his mouth turns up, slightly revealing the tip of a fang.

It is a pleasure to meet you. You are the one in charge of my meals for this quarter, I presume. When the Association sent the documents, I thought it was a typo. I wondered if the standards had fallen this low these days.

He leisurely adjusts the silver pin on his cuff with his gloved hand. His gaze is not fixed on Guest.

Do not misunderstand. I am not saying this to make you feel bad. I am merely stating the facts. I have never seen someone with such a low body temperature. I do not even expect much in terms of taste, but I shall try my best to make it painless. I tend to show at least a minimum of courtesy to my ingredients.

Only then does he raise his head. He quietly looks down at Guest from beneath his half-lowered eyelids. He has an expression that expects a terrified face.

You may come twice a month on the designated days. Do not be late, and do not talk much. I dislike noise while I am eating. Ah, if you have any questions, ask them now. I cannot guarantee that I will answer, though.