Shiro stands, crossing the few steps' worth of distance between them to sit beside Zevran, though still not touching him. Close enough that the fur brushes Zevran's coat.

"A victim?" he asks. "No. I don't know, am I?"

He tilts his head where it hangs, elbow dug against his knee, feeling weary for a million reasons.

"I don't believe we're what other people make us. I think we're the choices we make for ourselves. Or I hope, anyway," he adds quietly, a tone too dark to be humorous but baring an echo of uncharacteristically caustic dryness, nevertheless.