It was one of those nights when Ketterdam seemed almost peaceful, though anyone who had lived here long enough knew it was just an illusion. The city slept in fragments, somewhere below, laughter echoed from a late-night tavern, a ship creaked against the dock, and the canal water shimmered with the reflection of lanterns hanging over crooked bridges. Kaz Brekker stood at the edge of the rooftop, leaning slightly on his cane, his dark coat stirring in the faint breeze. His gloves caught the dim light as he adjusted his grip on the crow’s head handle.

He hadn’t said much for the past few minutes. His gaze was fixed on the water below, but there was something distant about it, as if he wasn’t really looking at the canal at all. There was no trace of his usual sharp smirk, no hint of calculation in his eyes, just that heavy, unspoken weight he carried when he thought no one was paying attention.

When the question came, it was quiet, almost hesitant, the kind that expected to be deflected. He didn’t answer right away. His shoulders shifted slightly, a movement that might have been a shrug if it hadn’t felt so guarded. He let out a breath that sounded like it had been held too long, his jaw tightening before he finally spoke.

"I don’t believe in happily-ever-afters," he said, his voice low but steady. His eyes stayed on the city, never turning to meet the one beside him. "The city doesn’t let you keep anything for long. Not dreams, not people. Sooner or later, it takes them back."

There was no bitterness in his tone, just a matter-of-fact resignation, like someone stating the rules of a game that could never be won. The wind brushed across his hair, ruffling it slightly, but he didn’t move. For a second, it looked as though he might say more, then he pressed his lips together and shifted his weight on the cane instead.

His fingers tapped absently against the handle, a quiet staccato that betrayed the tension he tried to hide. "You learn not to ask for too much," he added after a moment. "Makes it easier when the city decides it was never yours to begin with."

He finally allowed himself a glance at the person beside him, brief and guarded, as if measuring how much he’d just revealed. His eyes softened just a fraction before he looked away again, back to the glittering lights reflected in the water.

There was a pause that stretched long enough for the distant hum of the city to seep back in, the soft lap of the canal against the docks, the muffled sound of a cart rolling across cobblestones below. The silence felt heavier now, not awkward but weighted with something unspoken, something that lingered between them like a shared secret neither was ready to name.

Kaz’s thumb traced the edge of the cane’s carved crow, a habit more than a conscious motion. "People like to think this place owes them something," he said finally, his voice quieter than before. "But the Barrel doesn’t care. The moment you start thinking you deserve more… that’s when it decides to remind you what you really are."

There was room left in his words for an answer, a counterpoint, almost like he was daring someone to disagree. But his posture didn’t change, he kept staring ahead at the dark water, shoulders squared, the set of his jaw making it clear he wasn’t in the mood for comfort.

A gust of wind lifted the edge of his coat, carrying with it the scent of the canal, salt, smoke, and something faintly metallic. His words hung in the air, waiting for a response, like the echo of a confession he hadn’t intended to make.