There's still a few breaths left in him, a small bit of light left in his eyes, but it's more of a fire that would continue to burn. He'd remember her. This had only just begun.

He gives her the simultaneously weakest and most smug grin a dying man could give.

It was so very I told you so. "F-" he coughs, some blood running over his lips and down his cheeks to drip onto the metal floor, "-fog." He coughs more, the exposed and half-torn muscles of his throat visible as they flex with the movement.

You could finish him or leave him to die, Rosalind. At this point, he really doesn't care either way. At least he's not being completely eaten alive.