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Ten years of viscous stagnation because of the man standing in front of him, and Vader’s universe narrows to a single thought: Finally.
His lightsaber ignites and hums with the promise of continuation and conclusion.
Obi-Wan runs.
For a second Vader braces himself for a surprise attack from another direction until he understands one isn't coming. And that realization nearly stops him in his tracks.
He lets a theory turn over in his mind and he finds no flaw: Obi-Wan is broken.
A grasping glee comes over him knowing he is so close to his prize. Obi-Wan's death will be easy. It will be delightful. It will be fitting. Vader deserves this.
Obi-Wan will suffer. The weakness in him, the very essence of Jedi, will be grabbed ahold of and decimated, twisted and yanked until its tether frays and snaps.
Obi-Wan will die. Light will be snuffed out slowly in fits and gasps, but only extinguished after Vader is utterly satisfied.
And then. After the fire. After the pain. After the destruction of the old. Then and only then will Obi-Wan Kenobi be reborn.
"I am what you made me," Vader tells him.
It's only right to return the favor.