He flicked his eyes toward Zsasz's glass, decided it was suspicious, decided it didn't matter, and raised his own glass. When he took a sip, he felt a minor relief at the burn; he'd needed this. And that bottle was going to happen after. It wasn't often that Daud drank more than one or two glasses at a time, rare that he let himself dive into drunkenness, but this night could be an exception. Call it a long-needed release. Call it a celebration of his new life (that was a laugh - as if any life can ever be new - but he brushed the thought aside).

"I've never been able to gamble. It doesn't interest me." He had a hard time envisioning Zsasz gambling, but then it was hard to picture Zsasz in any setting beyond his work.

(And himself? What else could he be visioned as? Where and what was he save for an assassin, and what could he possibly build out of life? ...He didn't want to think about it. Better to address the question without dwelling.)

Daud offered a too-casual shrug. "And I haven't had time to be bored. Guess I'll have to wait and see if it comes for me."

He would've liked to claim it wouldn't happen. Would've liked to have said he'd never been one for thrills, but it would've been a lie. It'd been part of the attraction to his work, hadn't it? The rush of pursuit and taking another's life in-hand, of choosing to end it and knowing there was nobody to stop you. The electric calculation of every movement in action, adjusting for each new factor and still remaining fixed on the target. The months of building up to the act, the gathering of research and the construction of an airtight plan that might need to be completely rewritten in the moment. All of that had brought excitement.

And all of that was what he'd given over.

It had been the right call. It had. He'd just... It'd take some getting used to.