[Right. Part of what they do. No one likes it. But there's no choice. The words he's repeated constantly before, said to others like an empty fucking vow - they held no real meaning to him days ago, just the self-righteousness and hollow pride of being somebody, of being a hero, of being someone to count on. Just a goddamn broken record. Just a nice bow to wrap around the actual horror of making the decision to kill someone and go through with it. Who gave him the authority to do that? This place?

Julian's jaw tightens, he feels a surge of anger and resentment; his hands shake as he rubs his cheeks and wet eyes. His voice is still rough, harsh, but the tears are gone from it.]

There is nothing heroic or right about killing someone. If it's part of what we do then someone's lying about what this place is about.