He was silent for a long moment, weighing her question. Asking it of himself again, a quiet echo in his ears.

"...It don't mean the same thing to 'em," he said finally, his drawl slow and soft. "...An' I ain't sure I'd have a taste for it."

Even if it were exactly the same, even if the role hadn't changed (a servant of the public, for the good of all, to a private force at the whim used to terrorize), he couldn't say it's how he'd want to spend his life once it was all said done.

He didn't know how much longer the arenas would last, how much he would have to fight, but he could already tell he was tired of violence, of blood and death.

Could tell that he wanted to rest. To know some sort of peace.