Chapter Text
It was the way he walked.
Not the slight tilt to his gait or the effortlessly long strides, but the way each step was self assured. Something earned, years of clawing his way to the top of the Barrel’s food chain affording him the privilege. Yet, underneath the guise of criminal repute, that confidence came from an ingrained corner of his mind; flashes of a past long buried.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Walking the streets of Ketterdam, on an evening such as this, you could almost feel storm in the smoky air; the western currents carrying with them a warm front off the coast of Novyi Zem. The atmosphere was heavy, in the most straightforward of senses. Strolling along the Government District, that dark set of eyes pause at the sight of the Ravkan Embassy. Pillars of grey stone adorned by the scrawling words of the nation’s national anthem stared back at the young man. The double headed eagle emblazoned on the raised flag seemed to shift, the fabric snapping in the breeze.
Now, let it be known, that he was not one for sentimentality; so when a collection of old remembrances bubbled to the surface, he was quick snuff them out. Turning sharply away from the desolate building, he replaced thoughts of golden hair and laughter with ones of festering hate and vengeance.
The figure was like a shadow, cutting his way down to the 5th Harbor, all presence yet no words. Not a single soul dared approach, the clack of cane on cobbles alerting those of the East Stave to his arrival. Rumors of glittering courts and elaborate schemes had spread quickly among the masses, and hushed whispers swirled in the night.
All different versions of a questionable truth.
You see, it was never just about the heist or the money or even Rollins; for him, it was about what lay beyond the True Sea, east of the farthest Kerch port. Or rather, who. With the sullen creak of the docks beneath tailored heels, he let himself wonder about what could have been. Amongst the blackened surf and shrouded moon, weary eyes shuttered closed; chest releasing a shaky breath. Gloved fingers clenching around haunting crow likeness.
Only question was: would he stick with his hand, or fold and bet on another game?
For this story to be told, one must understand a key fact: he was not like most people. In fact, there was no one like him; at least, not anymore.
Kaz Brekker was different, and it all started with the way he walked.