He’s wrong about one thing: there’s a trail of bodies to Tim’s name, a great long list of people dead because of him - because of his life, his presence, a slip of a blade slammed through someone else’s throat. The crack of a skull against concrete.

Every single one of them paid for it. For knowing him.

He’s tired. They’re tired. And he’s put them through enough. Hasn’t he? Tim sniffs faintly, pathetically, wiping his nose on his fucking sleeve like some kind of kid.

And then he nods.

“Okay.”