With Vol's heart laid bare, he realized he wasn't like those men. It was no wonder he'd not made any true friends with them. He didn't like the act of whoring or the lies inherent in it. He was too awkward to properly pursue a woman, nor had he ever really thought of such things, until he realized just how lost he was in a world that he'd conquered.
He'd achieved it all – far more than he could have ever wanted, and yet it mattered not. In the dirt, beneath him, as the mule cried in horrific pain, there wreathed the disfigured body of Penelope, back broken, hands bent back, until she was a mere ball of flesh, folded in on herself. Vol was unable even to see her face – but he saw those struggles.
Vol's arm moved of its own volition. Even if his brain could no longer process the concept of mercy, his body still longed for it. He couldn't endure the mule's screams. The axe took its life, freeing it from its torment.
