Grantaire's eyes dropped to the knife, wishing for it to fly to his own hand preserved their distance, for every step closer, he took another back. "A production! This is no production, what an insult! Any bad review I garner will be well deserved, I am not making the effort," he objected, his garrulousness glimmering before it was smothered, crushed beneath exhaustion.

His posture slackened, a puppet with strings cut and his expressions was one of wretchedness. He could take this offer and be done with it, calling it a mercy was valid and he had stood willingly before death once already, could he not do it again? But that had been for something, that had been for someone. Yes, he knew it was inevitable, yes, but this time he would spend the moments up to the end running from it.

"I decline, regretfully."