[coughs] Fitzroy… you win this fool war, you send this to New York. [bloody coughs] They ain’t getting the girl. Whoever they are — [winces] Maybe I did right by you and the Vox, but in the end… that don’t square anything.
[gasping] Anna… Anna… I’m sorry…ＥＮＤ ＲＥＣＯＲＤＩＮＧ
I can see your soul at the edges of your eyes. It’s corrosive, like acid. You got a demon, little man. There’s a shadow in you, son.