"It already does." He edges the word out from between clenched teeth, for a moment his expression locked into something distantly melancholy. As if there's a deeper meaning in the words he's struggling to coax out of hiding without success, without means for resolution. "I won't be the one to enjoy that world. It has no place for me."

He does not deserve it. He has not and never will deserve it, not with the blood on his hands, not with the people he's killed, the humans who have had to suffer for his actions and his mistakes and his brutality that catches them in the crossfire, no matter how he plans to set things otherwise.

He opens a hand, forms the shape of a gun with the fingers, and places the tip under his chin.

"You could do it now," he says with a strange, fierce intensity. "You could stop this now."