The Barrel never truly slept, but the Deadman’s had its quieter moments. The late-night hours brought a lull—a rare break from the noise and chaos that defined Ketterdam. Even the streets outside seemed to hold their breath, as if the city itself was resting.

Kaz Brekker sat at his usual spot, his gloved hands resting on the head of his cane. The dim, flickering light from the lantern above cast uneven shadows over his sharp features, deepening the hollows of his cheekbones and giving him an air of untouchable authority. To the rest of the world, he was Dirtyhands—the Bastard of the Barrel, a myth wrapped in black and ruthlessness.

But to you? He was simply Kaz. The boy you’d known since childhood.

The boy who had taught you how to survive in a world that never gave second chances. The boy who carried the weight of Ketterdam’s filth and schemes on his shoulders but always seemed to make room for you in his impossibly tight, guarded world.

You sat across from him, legs folded beneath you on the battered couch, your head tilted back against the worn cushions. The two of you shared the kind of silence that could only come from years of understanding—comfortable, heavy with unspoken truths, but never strained. You’d both seen the worst that Ketterdam could throw at you, and yet, here you were, surviving another night together.

Kaz’s dark eyes flicked toward you, sharp and calculating, but there was something softer in the way he held his gaze. He never let his guard down entirely—he couldn’t—but with you, he came close. You could feel it in the way his attention lingered, as if you were the only thing in the room worth watching.

“You should be asleep,” he said finally, his voice low and steady, like the slow creak of a door that rarely opened.