Luther's almost about to teasingly parrot her words back again — Liking it wasn't really part of the job — but the words catch in the back of his throat, and he has to pause then, looking thoughtful, weighing it over more carefully. (He's usually so methodical with all his words, mindful of pinning his thoughts down.)

Because that wouldn't be the entire truth, would it.

"I did, sometimes," he admits instead. "Even the fighting ring part."

Blood in his teeth and on his knuckles and the satisfying crunch of bone beneath his hands. It was ugly and brutal and vicious and it was the closest he'd felt to being alive, that whole time. Like without the rest of the Academy, all of his family dead, he was a dormant weapon on the shelf and only sometimes dusted off, brought back to life himself.

"I think it also feels... familiar. Like what I, or that other version of me, did in the City for Gabriel, for better or worse. But if you're worried about the clientele... the details aren't sorted, but I think it'd probably vary based on the job and the contract, so not a permanent gig like the mayor was. And nothing— nothing like Jack. Brandon worked at City Hall, so it'd be above board. Hell, maybe it'd even be security for special events. Arrival ceremonies." He tilts his head. Another twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Project Walkway red carpets."