"It's serious," he tries to snap, but he's not up for an argument. "They're going to kill you. They might kill me too, I don't know."

Any of his usual ability to form intelligent, coherent sentences is buried under the haze in his skull right now, along with any ability to really care about the death sentences hanging over their heads. It's just obligation. He's obligated to be serious about this, to care, to keep going, to get stronger, to be better.

"I can't lighten up. Not yet."