There's a flash of motion: and then there's an empty shot glass on the bar, and a whisky bottle beside it, contents still sloshing wildly, and Horst is much farther into Johannes's personal space than he was a moment before, with the tines of Johannes's fork pressed to his throat, a sliced piece of sausage still speared on it. The fingers of his other hand are curled overtop his brother's own, wrapped around the death's-head pommel of his cane -- one man with death in his grip, and another holding him back, and isn't that so fitting for our relationship, Horst thinks.

Horst is the much stronger of the two, and pins him in place there, against the bar, with nary a hold but his fingers and his brother's dinner fork. "Shouldn't you be in Hell, where you belong?" he hisses into the blond man's ear. "Or have you paved your way out of that with other people's futures as well? Is this my prodigal brother, come after me to beg my help in doubling down on his first idiot bet?"

Horst snarls threateningly. "Or is this some impostor, wearing his skin? Why aren't you in Hell, you little bastard?!"

Horst supposes this constitutes an overreaction. It's funny how justified it feels even so.