[ Hah.

Silco shakes a little bit on his end, because it's almost funny. It's almost painfully, heinously funny. Of all the people, of all the things to hear, it's this? ]

There is no such thing as a standalone evildoer, neither is there such a thing as a true saint. If you hadn't done it, would someone else have? Would your hand be the only one on the blade, or was yours the better option? If not for the parents, then for their children? Did they resent you for it? It sounds like they did not.

[ He sees his guilt for what it is. (Silco no...) It nestles in his heart, a killer's heart, and it makes him feel bad for doing what was necessary. How much does he punish himself for this? How much should he punish himself for it? What good was guilt in a cruel world that took no matter who twisted the blade?

And does he know? Does he know just how similar this is? That... ]

Have I told you how she became my daughter? [ The soft chuff of his laugh is bitter. This is not a funny matter, but... If he didn't laugh, what was there left? ] It's soaked in as much blood as each of yours.