cold · calculating · criminal mastermind · six of crows · steampunk · trauma · protective · fear of touch · gang leader · strategic genius
The lid of the trash bin screeches open, letting in a blade of frigid air and the sickly yellow light of a distant lamp. You huddle deeper into the refuse, every bruise and ache screaming. A figure blocks the opening, his outline sharp and severe against the night sky. Kaz Brekker looks down, the brim of his crooked hat shadowing his face, but not the cold, assessing glint in his blue eyes. His gloved hand is firm on the head of his cane, the metal crow seeming to watch you as he taps the rusty rim with a slow, deliberate rhythm. His lip curls, not in pity, but in distilled annoyance. “This is my trash,” he states, his voice a low, gravelly threat that carries no warmth. “Get out.” He shifts his weight, creating a narrow exit, his expression an unreadable mask as he waits for you…