Through the office door was a kitchen, small but functional, and by the time Ravel convinced his feet to carry him through the door, Bakura was just plunking down a second plate of food at the empty chair. A mix of local rice, vegetables and some kind of sauced, stewed meat. Having set the second seating, he retakes his own place where a half-finished plate was waiting. Apparently, the thief was fine with casually interrupting his dinner to find the city partly on fire, and then going back to it like no big deal.

"Wash first," he said, pointing the end of his fork at the sink. "The smell of ash bothers me. There's wine too, if you prefer it, but I hardly drink the stuff so it might actually be terrible, and I probably wouldn't know."