Regrettably. A muscle in his jaw twitches briefly and he looks away because he must. He did what he considered necessary for a purpose, a purpose he has acted upon in the past and would do so quite willingly again because it was, as he saw it and still sees it, completely and wholly necessary, and he is just as disappointingly, frustratingly, conventionally susceptible to the flaws of his species as anyone would be.

"The man who tortured me," he says, the defensive bite rising despite the uncertain tightening of his shoulders. He looks at her with building momentum, a silent challenge, an absurd defiance to whatever judgement she may pass on his actions' behalf. "I killed him."

Immediately the justifications present themselves, multifaceted and manifold. "It was necessary. He was going to kill Ms. Asadi as well as myself, and I acted - "

He did not act in self-defense.

He acted recklessly, and drove the other man into the ground with the ruthless tightening of fingers around his throat before Fring could initiate any sort of offense, exerting pressure until the man's struggles faded into choking then silence.

"It was necessary," he concludes, the ferocity of his defense dimming for reasons he cannot map or track or delineate. "For all involved."