"Yes, well." He takes a long enough drag off the cigarette that it burns down to the filter, and he uses it to light another in between letting out the smoke in a long, slow exhale.

He is glad he did what he did at the end; he does not regret it, not even a little, not even a shadow of doubt. But it still hurts more than anything he'd ever done - more than anything he knew even could.

Which is, he supposes, the price of free will. "Sorry, it's just - complicated."