Kaz Brekker Imagines

Stay For Me

Anyone who's anyone in Ketterdam knows two things: stay clear of Kaz Brekker, and above all else, stay clear of his girl. Dirtyhands may be known across the Barrel for taking on any job, for not caring what lives he took or who was crushed beneath his heel. Any poor fool who tried to take you on instead was in for a rude awakening- you could get out of any situation alive, likely with someone else's blood staining your fingers. However, you were rarely alone, and whenever someone tried to mess with you Kaz would always seem to get involved.

It became an unspoken rule that you were not one to be messed with, even before you got with Kaz or the Dregs in the first place. Before you took your spot at Kaz's right hand, you were a cutpurse with a particular affinity for bloodshed, someone who could break into even the toughest vaults and take on the jobs everyone swore were too difficult to crack. To be honest, you reminded Kaz a little of himself. Maybe that was why he reached out to you in the first place.

He already had a spider, someone who could get into unbreakable buildings and steal information. Kaz himself could pickpocket anybody. Anyone else would have stopped trusting strangers at that point, refusing to wear their hearts on their sleeve for any longer. Kaz had cut away his heart long ago, so maybe he didn't need to fear another betrayal from someone else if he expected betrayal from anybody. Regardless of whether or not he really was looking for another addition to his gang, once Kaz heard about you he knew he had to seek you out.

It took Kaz Brekker roughly one day and two nights to track you down, and another forty-eight hours to convince you why a job as a Crow would be worth your while. To be honest, your hesitation surprised him a little: everyone in the Barrel knew about the Dregs, the way they were rising to the top faster than even the Dime Lions or the Razorgulls. Anyone with half a brain would have jumped at the offer, but you turned him down. It baffled him, and Kaz has lived long enough in Ketterdam to stop being surprised at almost everything.

You knew he would be surprised. That's why you declined his offer in the first place: to see how well he could handle being wrong. You've met too many men with deep pockets and even larger egos who balk at a mere contradiction to know that you can't tie yourself to anyone who thinks too much of themselves. If Kaz truly wanted you as an investment and not just proof that he could get anyone, he would come back with a better offer, or at least try to threaten you into accepting.

So, you looked him in the eyes, paying no heed to the dark slick of his hair or the way his gloved hands curled on top of his crow's head cane. You shook your head once, voice firm in the weak half-light offered up by your apartment's few oil lamps. "I think I'm good, thank you." The words were polite, civil. How strange for a thief in the Barrel. If Brekker was surprised at all, he would wait to act on it, and certainly not show it to someone he'd barely met.

However, Kaz was surprised. Very surprised, in fact. He'd already done all the research, run all the numbers. A place among his Dregs was likely the best job offer you'd get in this side of Kerch, and protection from the brothels of the West Stave wouldn't be a certainty with anyone else. Above all else, those who are smart know better than to mess with Dirtyhand's men, and the threat of broken fingers means far more to a cutpurse such as yourself than to anyone else. By all accounts, it was the perfect offer, one you should have accepted immediately. Yet, you didn't.

It puzzled him. Kaz had an affinity for knowing all the answers. He watched magic tricks to know how they worked, studied the fingers of pickpockets and lock breakers to learn the tools of their trade. He would turn his mind over a problem until he understood every part of it. At first, you were just another problem to him, something to think over until he could think over the right selling point.

This is how he spent the next few hours, thinking through everything you'd said and what you hadn't, every look you'd given him, every tilt of your head and toss of your hair. You hadn't once stared at his gloved hands as everyone else seemed to, so you weren't fazed by the rumors. You had looked him dead in the eyes, so you weren't afraid of retribution. What, then, could make you turn away?