Drowning (Kaz Brekker)

ii - Asra

Or option two; pride. Similar to the last, though whereas one dictated Kaz feared the filth around him, two implied he thought himself above it. He didn't wish to sully himself with those around him. Asra didn't like that one as much, she didn't like it at all. The idea that Dirtyhands didn't want to get his hands dirty just made her scoff and glare at him across the room.

She'd often watch him, when nothing else was particularly outstanding. And sometimes, when she dared interfear with the world around her, Asra would feel his gaze on the back of her neck. She didn't like that, didn't like to be seen. The remnants of an old life dictated it wrong and she'd snap her head towards him. She never caught him looking, of course she didn't, but that didn't stop the tremble in her hands and bile in her throat.

He'd given her a room. After three days of coming in, grubbier each time and not once changed from her once uniform suit, he'd asked.

"Where are you staying?"

"Somewhere." She'd said out of habit. Anonymity was built into her bones and even if she'd sullied herself with a name these days, it didn't change her nature. Truth be told (not that she ever indulged such a thing), Asra slept in whatever quiet hovel she could dissappear into. She hadn't exactly had time to check out real estate when fleeing for her life.

Kaz had scoffed. "I won't have my staff look like they crawled out the sewers."

He'd lead her through the Barrel, walking once again with all the arrogance of a God, until they reached the Slat. It was three stories of cramped rooms and surprisingly dry walls, and there he showed her a room that was supposedly hers. It was little more than a crappy bed and chest of drawes, but it was hers and that was better than anything she'd known in a long time. Then Kaz had given Asra her payment early and told her to buy herself something new.

And she had. Now, here she stood, in a new pair of muted red trousers and a white shirt with sleeves down to her wrists. Her top two buttons were undone and not a single weapon was on display on her body. It was an odd getup for her. But then again, everything about this was odd when Asra thought about it.

Only one thing seemed not to have changed. The nightmares.

Of course. They'd plagued her since she'd first shed blood that wasn't hers, the ripe age of five, and she'd not known peace since. Why would a change of scene and clothes and name make a difference?

After a week of laying awake in her itchy bed in her Slat bedroom, Asra decided she'd had enough. She kicked the blanket off her, pulled a jumper over her body, and stepped out into the building.

She didn't know where she was going or what she was doing. She was tired and distracted and barely aware she was heading downstairs till she was. Then she froze. There, stood in the middle of the stairs, was Kaz. He was watching her over the rim of his mug, eyes dull yet analytical. Always analytical. She found herself waiting, staring back. She felt seen, she always did around him. It made her skin crawl.

"Are you going to stand there all night or what?" Kaz asked at last, dropping his coffee from his lips and heading up the stairs.

"No." Asra muttered, eyes trained on Kaz as he headed up the stairs. Past her, out of sight, the sound of his cane slowly fading to nothing. Then she was alone.

Asra had stood there awhile. She'd tried, she really had, to keep herself entertained. But soon, lead by curiosity and the smell of coffee, she followed after Kaz.

His office was on the top floor. He had the whole attic to himself, greedy shit. His door was unlocked and he was sat at his makeshift desk of crates and an old door placed atop. He'd glanced at her as she slipped inside, keeping a foot in the door as she stood there.