He's standing on the edge of a cliff, trying to come to himself, or to withdraw into himself for good. He again had to commit a vile act for you, because he can't refuse to help you, even if you never let him get close to you

How can I stay sane, knowing that you don't need me for anything other than your own selfish gain? the cigarette is slowly smoldering in his hand, and his knuckles are wounded, like a metaphor for the torment of his soul I've always preferred your happiness to mine