The next morning stumbled in like it hadn't slept either.
Aria dragged herself into the kitchen, hoodie half-on, hair shooting in directions that defied physics. The kettle screamed, the toaster smoked like it was confessing sins, and Grandma sat waiting at the table—glasses sliding down her nose, grin cocked like an ambush.
"You know, Aria…" Grandma began with the gravity of a priest about to deliver scripture. "When I was your age, the buses never came on time. And the driver, bless his heart, he—"
Aria groaned, forehead collapsing onto her arms.
"Gran, I'm literally still asleep."
But Grandma kept going, relentless as weather.
"…he kept a little radio under the seat, and when it rained, the static got louder than the music. I used to think maybe the rain wanted to sing, too. Isn't that something?"
Aria cracked one eye. She should've brushed it off, crawled back upstairs, buried herself in blankets. Instead, she reached across the table and set her hand gently over Grandma's.
"Yeah," she murmured, a tired smile tugging through. "That's something."
Grandma's grin tilted—crooked, stubborn, alive. She slid a plate toward her. The toast was charcoal, black as last night's shadows. Aria picked it up anyway.
Because sometimes love wasn't flavor.
It was just showing up—even when your eyes were half-shut.
******************
Aria left the kitchen with the blackened toast clenched like it was Exhibit A. She forced down one bite—two, tops—before dumping the rest in the trash with the finality of a hit job.
"We need milk. Coffee. And maybe an exorcism for your toaster," she muttered.
Grandma chuckled, stirring her tea, spoon wagging like a dead magic wand.
"Don't forget the discount cigarettes, honey. Tell them they're for me—maybe they'll believe you."
Aria rolled her eyes, snatched the crumpled canvas tote off the hook by the door, and sighed like the judge had just read her sentence.
"Milk, coffee, cancer sticks. Got it."
She pulled her hood up and stepped out. The door shut, and the gray morning swallowed her whole, block and all, like the city didn't care if she came back.
*****************
The corner store smelled like old coffee, bleach, and tired neon buzzing overhead.
Aria tossed a carton of milk into her basket, grabbed a jar of instant, and snagged a dented pack of Grandma's brand cigarettes off the top shelf. She smirked—Gran swore she quit in '98.
By the counter, the cashier scanned items at a pace that could kill. Each beep lined up with the voices bouncing outside the glass storefront.
"…nah, bro, ribs is claws, everybody knows that."
"That's wrist, dumbass. Serpents don't claw, they vanish—"
"Vanish? That's chest! Lotus, tier four, boom—arena blackout!"
Aria plunked gum and a bruised apple onto the counter, half listening. The scanner beeped again, sharp like punctuation.
Then one voice sliced through, high but certain.
"Shut up. None of you know shit."
Silence. Even Aria turned. The smallest kid stood arms crossed, chin cocked like he owned the syllabus.
"Listen. Serpents? Ribs tattoo. Tier one. Frontliners. Muscle, speed, five-second vanish.
Iron Fangs? Wrist tattoo. Tier two. Augmenters. Blades, armor, weapons straight from skin.
Ash Crows? Shoulder blades tattoo. Tier three. Summoners—hawks, beasts, shadows.
Lotus? Chest tattoo. Tier four. Controllers. They twist the whole damn field.
And Hollow Suns?" He tapped his forehead. "Forehead ink. Tier five. Divine. Psychic. You don't mess with that."
The cashier slid her bag across. Aria tucked it under her arm, pushed through the squeaky door—just in time to hear the buzzing start again.
One of them froze, pointing. "Wait… star-girl?" His finger hovered at the faint ink peeking under her eye.
The others gasped. "Whoa. Old school!"
Aria smirked, tugging her hood lower.
"Vintage. Like vinyl. Don't scratch it."
Their laughter chased her down the block, bright and careless.
But the stares—they clung like shadows. And shadows always stayed longer
*************
Uptown neon hit different.
Not the busted flicker of Aria's block, but smooth glass tubes humming steady, smug. Streets stretched wide, sidewalks still dripping from hoses. The air reeked of discount perfume instead of fried grease. She hated it. She loved it. Like walking through a commercial she was never cast in.
The tote dug into her shoulder—milk, coffee, cigarettes, and some mystery thing Grandma swore she needed "before the grave." Aria rolled her eyes, weaving past chrome diners and storefronts where men in pressed shirts laughed like they'd paid for the right to be loud.
Then the whistle.
Sharp. Low. Straight at her like a dart.
She froze. A guy leaned on a lamppost, grin wide like he'd invented teeth. Her hand twitched—flip him off, keep walking—when another voice cut the night clean:
"She's taken. Move."
Her stomach dipped.
Of course.
Cole.
He slid out of the glow like he'd been waiting all along. Shoulders broad, tank clinging, black ink wings creeping over his shoulder blades. Ash Crows. Tier three. The mark screamed predator before his grin even got the chance.
The whistler muttered, retreated, shoes scuffing pavement. Cole didn't watch him go. His eyes stayed locked on her, grin bent and sharp.
"Still running pizzas?" he asked, voice lazy, gravel low. "Figured you'd have flown higher by now."
Aria clutched the tote tighter, rolled her eyes to smother the heat crawling up her cheeks.
"Still claiming every alley like it's yours? Figured you'd have learned boundaries by now."
His laugh came rough, boots-on-gravel. He tipped his chin toward her, lips twitching.
"So… when's Ash joining the murder? Every Crow needs a black cat, right?"
Her mouth betrayed her—tugged at a smile she didn't want to give.
Damn him.
***********
Cole's grin widened, eyes dragging over her—black bomber, chain flashing at her pocket, green streak slicing through her hair like neon trapped in the dark.
"You clean up nice, Aria. Uptown suits you."
She tilted her head, lips cutting sharp.
"Uptown smells like cheap perfume and broken promises. Guess that's why you fit."
His laugh bounced off the storefront glass, low, easy.
"Still mean as hell. Gotta admit—I missed that edge."
Aria hitched the tote higher, hip cocked deliberate. Neon skimmed her choker, lighting her throat for a split second.
"And you're still staring like the last five years hit pause. What's wrong, Cole? Run outta Crows to impress?"
That hit—jaw twitch, blink too long—but his smirk rebooted fast.
"Careful. People might start thinking you miss me."
She stepped closer, shrinking the air between them, eyes locked steady.
"If I missed you, you'd know. Hell, the whole city would. Might even echo down to the docks."
He exhaled rough, half-growl. Leaned in, voice scraping low.
"Always did know how to burn me alive."
For a beat, the world dimmed—neon, footsteps, street noise—gone. Just ink, memory, fire.
Then Aria broke it, smirk slicing.
"Relax, Cole. I've got deliveries. Not everything spins around you."
She turned, tote swinging, glow swallowing her stride.
Cole stayed put, grin fixed like he'd scored—
but anyone watching could see he hadn't
*****************
The uptown line crawled like it had nowhere better to be.
Aria hitched the tote higher, bomber squeaking under the neon buzz. Everything gleamed too clean—glass storefronts polished like teeth, perfume sharp enough to cut. Laughter ricocheted in packs, bouncing off chrome and marble, like the city wanted her to know she didn't belong.
She tugged her hood up, green streak flashing like graffiti under a streetlamp. Tote heavy with milk and cigarettes, she felt less like a person and more like spray paint dripping across someone else's ad. Out of place. Too loud, even silent.
Families here stick. Dinners without shouting. Tables set for four. Me? I get hand-me-down walls and a grandma who thinks burnt toast is breakfast. Lucky them. Lucky bastards.
Her eyes snagged on a couple swinging their kid between them, the boy shrieking with joy. The sound hit her chest like shrapnel. She exhaled slow, steady—smoke through cracks.
Some lights make you shine. These? They just bleach you out.
Her phone buzzed.
Cole.
Cole: So, when do I see you?
Her lips twitched—half smirk, half something softer. She flipped chats, thumbs quick.
Aria → Taro: Heading out tonight. Crows neighborhood. You down?
Reply hit back fast, like he'd been waiting all day.
Taro: Hell yeah, bro. About time. Cole's solid—you know that. Don't keep me waiting.
Aria huffed a laugh, shaking her head. Classic Taro—always giving Cole more credit than he deserved.
Only then did she swipe back.
Aria → Cole: Tonight works.
Phone slipped back into her pocket. The neon street hummed, families drifting past with voices warm, shoes clicking in rhythm. Her reflection stared from the glass—hood up, bomber zipped, eyes carrying something the rest of them would never see.
She smirked at herself, muttering under her breath:
"Trouble's got better aim than I do."
******************
The scooter coughed awake, louder than it had any right to be in uptown silence. Aria swung a leg over, tote wedged between her knees, and tore off. Neon smeared behind her—all polished glass and curated glow—until the shine gave way to rust.
Here, billboards peeled. Streetlamps flickered like dying stars. A stray dog limped through the intersection, dragging half a leash. Aria leaned into the turn, wind biting her cheeks, the green slash of her hair whipping wild.
Uptown sells perfection. Down here? You just get the truth—whether you asked for it or not.
She smirked, eyes locked ahead. Same city, two faces. And she only ever belonged to the one with cracks showing.
The front door creaked open. Burnt sugar curled in the air. Grandma sat at the counter, newspaper upside down, mug steaming in her hands. She squinted at the tote dangling from Aria's arm.
"Good girl," she said, like Aria had dragged home treasure. "Milk means breakfast. Coffee means survival. Cigarettes mean I'll outlive you yet."
Aria snorted, dropped the bag on the table, kissed her grandma's cheek, and trudged upstairs.
Sleep took her quick.
When she woke, dusk had settled—purple leaking through the attic window. She splashed water on her face, tugged the bomber off the chair, and sat cross-legged before the mirror. The room held its breath, broken only by the snap of her makeup case.
Foundation. Liner. Lipstick. Armor for the night. Her hands moved steady—until they reached the jar of moisturizer. She dabbed along her jaw, slid lower, across her throat. The choker lay discarded on the desk.
And there it was.
The tattoo. Black. Brutal. Unforgiving.
DEATH—spelled in jagged gothic letters, carved across the base of her neck like a curse. Thin tribal strokes licked outward, sharp as barbed wire, catching the dim light. It didn't look like a choice. It looked like a sentence.
Her fingers hovered, afraid to touch. The mirror threw back a face younger than the mark deserved.
And the thought hit, raw and ugly:
Who the hell tattoos death onto a baby?
No answer came. Just her own breath, ragged and low.
*****************
The road into Crow turf always hit different. Not quiet—just heavy. The kind of weight that crawled under your skin. Neon died behind them; here, streetlamps flickered with sick yellow halos, and banners painted with black feathers twitched in the wind like they were alive.
Aria throttled down, boots dragging until the scooter rolled to a crawl. Two Serpents sprawled across the curb up ahead, drunk on their own shadows. One dangled a bottle, the other puffed on a smoke that reeked chemical, bitter. Their laughter cut the night jagged.
"Yo," Bottle-boy slurred, smirk sharp. "Look at this. Goth Barbie on her toy scooter. Wrong block, sweetheart."
His buddy leaned forward, teeth shining.
"Forget those bird freaks. Come to the Serpent pit. Real men, real fun."
Aria's jaw locked. She didn't answer.
Taro rolled up beside her, belly first, beanie crooked, and without pause barked:
"Fuck off, reptiles. Nobody's thirsty enough to party with geckos tonight."
The taller Serpent stood slow, savoring it. He lifted his shirt—ink coiled across his ribs, serpent scales glowing faint under the streetlight.
"You think you're tough?" He spat at the ground. "Freaks. Don't be a goth bitch."
Aria braked hard, engine coughing. She swung off the scooter, boots crunching glass. Helmet yanked free, hair spilling wild. She marched straight at him.
His grin widened. Hunger in his eyes.
The tattoo shimmered—then his body blurred. Vanishing, lunging. Fast, too fast.
But she was faster.
The mark under her eye flared—white fire, a star burning through skin. Time snapped like film melting. In the breath between blinks, she was inside his guard, her fist smashing his throat.
CRACK.
He hit the ground gagging, clutching at his windpipe, spit spraying like static.
Above, a crow screamed once, the sound sharp enough to split bone.
The second Serpent cursed, ribs lighting as his body dissolved into smoke—five seconds to vanish. He barely made one.
Aria's knee rocketed up, slamming his crotch like a demolition charge. His glow died. He folded sideways, dry-heaving into dirt.
Taro lost it. He pounded his scooter bars, screaming like he was courtside at a street fight:
"YOOOO! SIT your lizard ass DOWN! That's MY girl right there! Run it BACK, bitch, run it BACK!"
His laughter tore down the street, wild and hysterical.
Aria tugged her hood low, the star fading but still smoldering against her cheek. She didn't look back.
Then—low growl.
Not from them. From the dark behind.
It rolled through the block like thunder with teeth. The Serpents froze, eyes wide. Even Taro shut up.
From the alley, it came. Massive. Muscles rippling under fur, eyes burning like coals. A mastiff—but wrong. Too big, too heavy, every step landing like it could crack the street open. Ink shimmered across its flanks: jagged wings, serpent scars, brands that pulsed faint with power.
It padded closer, steady, deliberate. The air bent around it—predator, guardian, both.
Aria didn't flinch. Her hood shadowed her face, but her mouth curved, small and certain.
She leaned just enough for the dog to catch her voice.
"Hey, Pa."
The beast huffed, low and warm, like smoke easing out of a furnace. And the street, for the first time all night, felt less like a battlefield and more like a memory.
****************
The street bent into Crow turf like a threshold. No broken glass, no chaos—just a shift. Banners stitched with black feathers swayed overhead, lanterns swinging on porches, kids darting barefoot between houses. It didn't feel like enemy ground. It felt… lived in.
Instead of being wide-eyed, Taro leaned back on his scooter, smirking at the feather banners swaying overhead.
"Same old Crow turf. Lanterns, kids, banners everywhere. Man, Cole's people love their bird cosplay."
Aria snorted. "Better than skulls on pikes."
Taro shrugged. "Debatable. Skulls at least don't need laundry."
Aria smirked. "Trust me. They've got rules here. You just don't see them till you break one."
Aria smirked. "Trust me. They've got rules here. You just don't see them till you break one."
Taro raised a brow. "Like what?"
She grinned. "No whistling. Ever. They think it calls misfortune straight to your door."
Taro scoffed. "That's dumb."
Aria laughed under her breath. "Tried it once when I was ten. Some old Crow lady hurled a shoe at me—sock still inside. Thing nailed me in the forehead, just dangled there like a dead mouse tail."
Taro wheezed, nearly swerving. "Yo, that's legendary. No wonder you hate uptown rules—you already got cursed by footwear."
Aria shrugged. "Better cursed than dead."
They rolled to a stop outside a two-story house, banners draped across the porch, bass humming faint through the walls. Before they could knock, the door swung open. Cole stepped out, tank clinging to his shoulders, tattoos alive in the glow. His eyes locked straight on Aria.
"You saw that?" she asked.
"Yeah," Cole said evenly. "So did my father."
From deeper inside came the rumble of that familiar voice, rich and heavy, carrying like stone:
"Hey, Aria!"
Taro blinked. "Wait… that voice—"
Aria leaned in, muttering just for him.
"The mastiff. That was him. Ash Crows don't just ink birds. Tier three summons—we walk beside their spirits. When his beast moves, he sees through its eyes."
Taro's jaw dropped. "You mean he—"
She cut him off with the faintest grin.
"Yeah. He already saw me swing."
Cole clapped Taro's shoulder, pulling him into a quick hug, while the noise of a backyard gathering rolled out behind them—laughter, voices, the unmistakable pulse of Crow turf at night.
The music cut sharper, the laughter dimmed—something was about to shift.
*******