Nah.

[ to be fair, he never intended to kill anyone until things took a turn last time, forced him into realising what he already knew really. these are killers, not some dickhead coming at him in an alley he can punch out and leave. and who fucking knows how fast one of them would get back up if he didn't finish the job. stupid, short-sighted. ]

[ he nudges at something on the ground with the toe of his boot and a frown on his face, eyes cast downward. ]

I was a fighter, right. Never lost neither. Then I get sucked up into this shithole, getting fuckin' slaughtered every day and you can't even fight back? Not for real.

[ it starts tired, a little dispassionate. just recounting facts he's told a million times before around the campfire. what did you do back home? oh, i used to fight. explains everything about the way he is in just a few words. by the end though, the exaustion isn't gone, but the rage is there, just under the surface, barely restrained like always. obvious in the way he starts to emphasise his words, the flare of his nostrils and the way he clenches his jaw. ]

[ he shakes his head, takes another sip of whiskey. ]

Pretty sure you can imagine how that winds a guy up.