"It's not a lie." A distortion of the truth, potentially, but he is not inclined to devote thought to the minutiae of deviations from that subjective baseline. The flare of his frustration and its building velocity reaches an inevitable peak that he does not altogether see as wise but has no means of preventing. "You asked what I was hiding, and I told you. I didn't expect you to see my actions as favorable."

Asadi, possibly, had understood - she had not questioned it, but she had shot him the look heavy with warning, that they would never by any accounts mention or discuss the incident further - and the only other individual present had not been in the same room to witness it. It was not the first time he had murdered in cold blood, it would never have been the first time, and perhaps prior to this to everything he would not have committed such an act, he would not have acted rashly - but the linear, careful reasoning constructed around that argument dissolves because retrospect is, as it is in all circumstances, utterly useless. There is little point in debating the intricacies of whatever version of himself existed prior, not when he has already long since executed the necessary action.

"You don't know," says Arista, quietly, more contained, her ears laying flat, "what he did. What he was going to do."