"It ain't -" Mildmay stopped, looking down at his hands, the network of thin scars marking him a knife fighter and worse, the blood that wasn't there but would never leave him, the strong fingers that could wring the life outta somebody even now when he'd swore he'd given up killing.

Fuck.

Jackson.

He knew the doctor was still alive. And without holding too much of a grudge, with how he'd been doctoring Mildmay through his fever – even if Corbie did most of the taking care.

"It's what I am, though. I coulda killed Jackson without even thinking."