Montag didn't hesitate, simply giving the guard a breath of approval and a nod to acknowledge his words before entering through the door.

However, no sooner had he stepped past the doorframe, a figure literally coated in mystery passed hastily by suddenly. It was so sudden and unexpected, in fact, that the stoic Montag let out a small, but surprised grunt of exclamation as they momentarily locked eyes before the tattooed man swept past him completely. Montag spared him a quick look back, his mind racing even as the man simply glided through the yard and into the crowd, where even his distinctive figure was lost to a sea of the wealthy. A shiver ran up the young man's spin as he recounted the man's expression. He froze in place, eyes glazed over as he was consumed by thought. 

Who was he? Why did he have that tattoo? What did it represent? How could he pass all these people while staying practically unacknowledged? Why was he-

"Excuse me!" A young female voice broke Montag out of his concentration as its owner whipped past his side, almost knocking into him. She walked with purpose but still as though she was panicked, as if she was rushing herself. And it wasn't long until the detective found another waitress practically barging past him again, with the same demeanour as the first. He stepped to the side to gather his bearings as the literal and metaphorical heat of the kitchen became more apparent to him. It was an intense atmosphere to be sure, and it definitely hindered his ability to hear what was going on outside past the gates with Abigail, Thomas Arnault's voice becoming nothing more than an incoherent drone in the background. In here, orders, food and people were being flung around in an equally chaotic fashion. 

That chaos gave him a thought, one that made his stomach turn in panic and anxiety. That man. What had he been here for? Or rather, who had he been here for?

[color=goldenrod]"Shit..."[/color] Eduard muttered, his legs already in motion before he'd fully thought of a plan. His intuition pointed him in a certain direction though, and to him that was at least better than nothing. He walked casually but at an above-average pace through the tight spaces of the blaring room, weaving in between servers rushing to push out orders as quickly as possible and busy cooks at their workstations. One such workstation was unmanned though, seemingly being used to as an area to lay out main courses, with dozens of immaculate and near-identical steak dishes placed with absolute care. However, despite all that care, all it took from Montag was one calculated swipe of his hand, and he had one.

He carried it with purpose as though he was going to carry it straight out to the yard to offer it to the first aristocrat he laid eyes on. But he didn't go to the yard. On the contrary, he made his way to the room that had its entrance closest to the workstation. If he was lucky, it wouldn't be occupied. If he was luckier, it would have a staircase upstairs. If he was extremely lucky, it would be both. For now though, he took a deep breath and stepped through, leaving the epicentre of the hustle and bustle. He could see why a place like this had a high turnover of workers now.