"You don't know what happened." There's a lift in his tone that might've indicated a sharpening, a weaponized edge, if he'd had the wherewithal. If he wasn't feeling anything but tired and drained from the tableau of watching himself kill the man who deserved - better than he had to give. Listening to the slow, sickening drip of someone's blood across the dust-strewn floor, and trying not to be sick.

She doesn't know what it means to know him. What kind of death warrant that means she'd be signing, if she got any closer. If anyone got any closer.

Maybe this is, in and of itself, enough.