"Generally speaking, yes. We're also given money for kills we make in the arena to encourage this behavior." Not that he's ever sought that out. The only kills he'd ever made were accidental or intentional for reason of being emotionally or mentally compromised thanks to events or arena effects.

He pauses for a moment, eyes going to the flowers he'd been tending to only a short while ago and suddenly seeing them not as a wedding arrangement but as a funeral display. There's Jet, laid out on the table with the flowers and candle covering the hole in his chest left by Albert's blade, the scarring still prevalent around the tall blond's eyes. He'd done that, and they'd paid him for it, loaded his little credit card with blood money. It makes him feel ill and he leans on the table for a moment as the vision fades.

Jet's alive. Whole. Devoid of any lasting effect besides the trauma. Funny how he can think that, besides the trauma, as if what they go through every arena can just be shoved aside. But it has to be. What else can they do about it now?

Albert realizes he's been silent for some time and shakes his head. "I'm sorry, I must have zoned out for a moment."