Most people. It's not as though it's not true: he's not really a fun sort of guy. The observation registers as teasing, but he doesn't have even the flicker of a smile, though nor does he look mad about it. Honestly, she's welcome to be as flirtatious as she likes, so long as she enjoys flirting with a brick wall. Kaz is too strange and angry and socially inept to be good at talking to other people — the only solution he's found is to present a blank face, keeping everything under the surface and letting those around him fill in whatever they like.

He tips his head to the left at the question, as avian as his daemon. What is? "I'd be more at home in a casino," he admits. Not that he gambles or finds any particular enjoyment in the smoking and drinking and women of the night usually found in those establishments, but it would be somewhere he understood. This place is too — innocent. Aside from the penis waffles. And the kissing booths.

"Does this city even have an underbelly?" he wonders aloud, voice hoarse with a lifetime of smokestack living. And then he smiles at her for, probably the first time in this conversation, just a glint of it, like a man parting his jacket to show the gleam of a gun at his hip. "If not, I think that should change."