Barbara Kean had been kind enough to explain why, after the unfortunate mishap involving Tabitha’s right hand and the nearly fried brain of Butch Gilzean. And, despite his refusal to acknowledge the possibility that Oswald may, in fact, be in love with him, it remained lodged in his gray matter like a sliver. He had to be sure. So, instead of accepting Barbara’s little offer, Edward has concocted his own, cruel masterpiece of a labyrinth for Oswald Cobblepot. Why destroy his empire, his mind, and leave the wreckage for scavengers like Kean and her two pet goons? Why, indeed, when he could have it all for himself. And force Oswald to watch him take it from him in one great flood of terrible retrospect.

So, as he returns to the Van Dahl estate, he adopts a disposition of relief and exhaustion -- something suited for a man back from saying goodbye to his dead love once and for all. Luckily, Oswald seems to be taking advantage of this early Sunday morning and is still in bed. Good. He doesn’t have to waste any time sinking his claws into him.

Moving quickly up the stairs, shrugging off his overcoat and jacket and leaving them on the banister, he rolls up his sleeves, loosens his tie, and musses his hair. He doesn’t need to rub his eyes to redness, thankfully; he’d already shed a few tears for Isabella not long ago. Turning the knob to Oswald’s bedroom, he sniffles audibly into the darkness before closing the door behind him.

Still mostly dressed, albeit quite disheveled, he’s mustered up all his boldness and slipped in between the sheets and sidled up to their resident. All the while, silence.

Call it an experiment.