The city never sleeps—
it just groans in its sleep.
Rain slicks the rooftops of Ashfall, turning every metal edge into a mirror for ghosts. The streets below choke with smoke and sirens, the color of oil and blood. I move above it all, crouched on the iron rib of an old bridge, my cape breathing with the wind like a restless shadow.
Ashfall has a heartbeat—slow, broken, and dishonest. I can feel it beneath my boots.
Tonight, the Flock is moving arms through the Mire District. The police pretend not to notice; the mayor's men pretend it isn't real. But I notice. I always notice.
They think they own this city. They forgot who watched it die first.
A voice crackles in my earpiece.
"Raven, you in position?"
Micah Torres. Tech specialist. My ghost in the machine.
"Perched and waiting," I whisper, watching the warehouse below. Floodlights sweep the dockyard, catching the glint of rifles and crates branded with the Flock's insignia—a crow's feather carved in silver. "Four guards outside, two trucks loading. Looks clean, but it never is."
"Got eyes on thermal. There's a seventh heat signature—upper window, northwest corner. Probably a lookout."
"Then he'll see his last dawn."
I drop from the bridge. The wind howls past my mask as my grappling hook fires from my gauntlet. Steel cable bites into stone, halting me a few feet above the roof. My boots touch down without sound.
The Flock runs the docks now—guns, bodies, data, dreams. They fly under King Crow's wing. Every dealer is a feather in that monster's cloak.
And I pluck feathers. One by one.
The lookout is pacing near a generator, cigarette glowing. I draw a throwing feather from my belt—black metal, razor-edged. The wind shifts, and I release. It whispers through the rain, slicing the air—then silence. The man collapses with a wet sigh, smoke still curling from his dying lips.
No alarms.
I move through the skylight, descending into the warehouse rafters. Below, five men surround the crates, arguing over payment. Their words echo in the damp air.
"Boss says we move this batch to the Nest by morning," one growls. "We're late enough—"
"—and I say we wait till the rain dies," another snaps. "Not all of us want pneumonia."
"Keep talking," I mutter.
The chain supporting my perch creaks. I leap.
I hit the first man like thunder. His gun skids across the concrete as my knee drives into his jaw. Before the others react, I spin, sweeping one's legs and slamming a baton into another's throat. Two down.
"Shit—it's her!" one yells, scrambling for his rifle.
A gunshot cracks. The bullet grazes my shoulder armor. I roll, flicking a smoke pellet. Darkness blooms. In the haze, their panic becomes my symphony.
A man stumbles past me—I hook his neck with my baton, twist, and drop him. Another lunges with a knife. My cape flares like wings; I parry, grab his wrist, and drive my boot into his chest.
Silence returns, broken only by the rain drumming the roof.
Micah's voice hums in my ear again. "Warehouse feed's dead. You triggered something?"
"Nothing worth writing home about."
"Selene…" he says, using my real name now, softer. "Don't stay too long."
"I won't."
I kneel by one of the crates, prying open the lid. Inside—military-grade rifles, serial numbers scratched off. Beneath them, a small case. I open it. A black data drive. No markings except a tiny silver feather.
I pocket it.
That's when I hear it.
A slow clap from the shadows.
"Well, well," says a voice smooth as broken glass. "The Raven herself."
From behind a pillar, a tall man steps forward—expensive coat, slick hair, eyes that shimmer with mockery. He's not a thug; he's management.
"You've been making quite the mess," he continues. "King Crow doesn't like messes."
"King Crow can choke on them," I answer.
He smirks. "You think you scare us? You're one woman with sticks and feathers."
I tilt my head. "Feathers cut deep."
He raises a pistol. I throw a feather. It splits the air, catches the light—then finds its mark. His gun clatters to the floor as he collapses, clutching his throat.
I whisper to the corpse, "Fly home."
The rain greets me again as I step out into the night. The city's skyline bleeds light through fog. I launch my grappling line and vanish into it, another ghost swallowed by storm.
---
Morning
Ashfall looks different under daylight—
not cleaner, just more dishonest.
The morgue is buried beneath the city's hospital, its halls humming with refrigeration and regret. I swipe my badge and enter through the steel door marked Restricted Access.
Dr. Liora Dane is already there—sharp eyes, sharper words. "You're late, Kain."
"Traffic," I lie, hanging my rain-soaked coat.
She doesn't believe me, never does. "Another long night?"
I don't answer.
On the central table lies a body—male, mid-thirties, bullet wound to the chest. The tag reads: Unknown – Dockside Incident.
Micah Torres leans over a computer nearby, pretending to be bored. "Dockside, huh? Heard it was a slaughter." He glances at me, lips curling faintly. "Any guesses who did it?"
"Guessing's your job," I reply, snapping on gloves.
Liora rolls her eyes. "Focus, children."
We begin the autopsy. The man's tattoos catch my attention—crow feathers inked across his ribs. Flock insignia. My work from last night. I keep my face still as stone.
Micah notices. He knows. He always knows.
After Liora leaves to file reports, Micah lowers his voice. "You found something, didn't you?"
I hand him the black data drive. "Encrypt it. Quietly."
He takes it, eyes glinting. "You think it's Flock data?"
"I think it's answers. Maybe even a map."
He nods and slips it into his coat.
---
By noon, Detective Rowan Vale walks in. His presence turns the air heavier. Mid-forties, trench coat, eyes like stormclouds. He worked with my father once. He still wears guilt like cologne.
"Kain," he greets, handing me a folder. "Need your analysis on this. Looks like a string of connected killings—dockworkers, dealers, same M.O."
I flip the pages. Photos—men from the Flock. All dead. All mine.
I school my face into neutrality. "Looks like gang retaliation. Nothing new in the Mire."
He watches me too closely. "You're sure?"
"Positive."
He nods slowly. "You remind me of your father sometimes. He used to say the city had a pulse."
"It does," I murmur. "But it's arrhythmic."
He chuckles softly. "He'd have liked that." Then his tone darkens. "Be careful, Selene. Whoever's cleaning up the docks—they're making enemies. The kind that don't stay quiet."
"I'll keep that in mind."
When he leaves, I exhale the breath I didn't know I'd been holding.
---
That night, I sit alone in the morgue's cold office. The lights hum above. I plug the drive into my laptop. Files open—encrypted strings, surveillance clips, coordinates.
Then I see it.
A single folder named "NEST/VALE_01."
The screen flickers. A video loads.
A room full of masked men, all bearing the feathered insignia. A figure at the head of the table—his mask shaped like a crow's skull. The voice that follows is calm, commanding.
"Tonight we expand our reach. The Flock will own every wing of Ashfall. Let no detective, no officer, no… vigilante… stand in our way."
Static. End of file.
King Crow.
The name echoes like thunder through my skull.
Micah's voice comes through the comm, faint, from his side of the feed. "Raven… you hearing this?"
"Every word."
"What's the plan?"
I close the laptop. The room falls into shadow. "We find the Nest."
"Then what?"
"Then we pluck the king."
---
Later, I stand on the hospital's rooftop, rain returning to wash the world back to its sins. The city sprawls below—neon veins glowing through fog. Somewhere out there, the Flock feeds on it.
I reach into my pocket, pulling out a tarnished badge—my father's. The letters Detective Elias Kain barely visible beneath rust and time.
I whisper to the night, to the ghosts, to him—
"You were right, father. The city's dead."
The wind carries the words away.
And The Black Raven spreads her wings once more.