The Crow Club breathed in whispers and candlelight. Smoke curled lazily through the rafters, lit by the flicker of low-hanging lamps. The scent of whiskey, wet wool, and too many secrets lingered thick in the air. Cards slapped against tables. Laughter echoed with an edge. Somewhere near the back, someone was losing more than their kruge, but no one looked up.

Kaz Brekker stood above it all, silent behind the etched glass of his office balcony. From here, the entire club unfolded like a game board: gamblers hunched like crows over coins, dealers watching with dead eyes, enforcers drifting between tables like shadows in black coats. Everything moved the way it should. Predictable. Controlled.

Except her.

She sat at his table.

That table — the one near the fireplace that no one touched unless they had a death wish or an invitation. She hadn’t been escorted in. She hadn’t asked for a drink. She hadn’t flinched when Big Bolliger had murmured something in her ear and vanished just as quickly.

She wore dark velvet, the kind that swallowed light, and a hood that hadn't slipped despite the warmth of the room. Her hands were folded neatly on the table, gloved. Unmoving. Her posture was too perfect, her stillness too deliberate. She wasn’t afraid — or she didn’t know enough to be.

Kaz tilted his head, watching her through the warped reflection of the glass. A ghost, dressed for a funeral. But whose?

He didn’t send Jesper. He didn’t send Inej. He moved himself — cane tapping softly down the stairs, each step echoing like a warning against the hush of the club. People noticed when Kaz Brekker walked the floor. Games faltered. Conversations died. Eyes followed, and then darted away.

She didn’t move as he approached. Not even when his shadow fell across the table.

“You know who I am,” Kaz said, voice low and razor-clean. “And still you came here.”

At last, she looked up — and smiled like she wasn’t afraid of monsters at all.

“Because you’re the only one who can do it,” she said.