Zimo bit her lips together at Tiketh’s talk about money problems. The inquisitor wasn’t rich, but neither was she at a loss for rupees whenever it mattered. Anything related to actual detective work, hiring mercenaries, or other necessities of the job were covered by the Order as long as she wrote up an expense report to submit to them. And though she wasn’t rich, her pay wasn’t miserly either. It made her feel pretty shitty when she compared her own scenario to Tiketh’s. “Not enough to eat, huh?” She echoed with a frown. “Didn’t mean to bring that up, bud.” Who was Benjamin Tiketh anyway? She called him a friend, but she didn’t know much about him if she was really honest with herself. What did she know? That he was a musician. That he fought with a huge-ass scythe. And, well, that he had some kind of ghost problem. “Ha! You think I had guts to sing? Maybe I was a little tipsy…” Zimo admitted, shaking her head. “Don’t need talent so much as balls though. My singing was the definition of average at best, so don’t knock yourself, Tickles!” She squished back in her chair as he went over his distaste of public executions, spinal fin rubbing against the backrest. “It’s not really about wanting to see it,” she said, a sharp exhale through her nose marking a stifled laugh. “Not the same as going to see a play at least. It’s more about… making an example, I guess. This guy did terrible things, so witness what happens when you do that. And transparency with the public too.” She shrugged noncommittally. “It’s a hanging, so no, not gory at all.” Beheadings were distasteful, and Zimo saw little point to them besides the fear factor. Hangings got the job done just fine without going overboard.