[ The question doesn't quite catch him off guard, but a single eye blinks. The other stares at Gray, unyielding, never blinking, and burning with hate -- not for her, but for the world -- as it took everything in before it. Silco's lip curled, the scarred skin puckered, where the marred makeup was streaking, showing signs of rotted flesh beneath, where the man's veneer was slowly being pulled away underneath this tree.

It seemed he was often at his most...unhinged, down here. Underneath this tree's roots. ]

No.

[ He said simply. ]

We do not have the luxury of being good, where I am from. We are survivors, and nothing more than that. Nobody who can survive like we have can be called "Good".