Don't... Don't say that, [ he whispers. That alone shows that Kostya is a better person than he is—he can't conceptualize the level of evil that would require this kind of confession, the sort of sickness that wouldn't be alright.

His heart should be racing, and yet, he finds that it isn't. Maybe he's just that tired. ]

Konstantin, I'm not... a good person. I have never been a good person. There are things that I should have... told you from the beginning and didn't. First you were sick and then I was just... selfish.

[ He presses his lips together as he looks down at the book held so tightly in his cold grasp. ]

They captured a Forest Talker today, Konstantin. I interrogated him. And it wasn't... [ He draws in a shaky breath against the tightness of his chest, swallows hard, closes his eyes for a moment. Goodbye to all of this. To the one island of human closeness he's felt since dying, or maybe even before that.

More than closeness. Love. He loves him. ]

It wasn't the first time. Or even the second. I was good at it. I was so good at it.

[ He remembers the book. Shakily, he opens it and withdraws the photograph face-down—himself, a lieutenant in the All-Soviet NKVD, seated in full uniform with both parents standing behind him, each with a hand on one of his shoulders—amd holds it out to him between two fingers, trembling slightly with their quivering. ]

Four years, [ he whispers, and when he continues, his voice is thick and strained with unshed tears he has no right to form. ] Until...

[ Until it was his turn. ]