Thursday Night
A soft rain mists the rooftops, washing last week's blood into the city's veins. Selene perches on the edge of a gutted factory — wings draped over cracked brick, eyes on a shipment she knows is bait.
Micah's voice scratches through her earpiece.
> "I'm telling you, this is too neat. One crate. One truck. One convenient rumor about Crow's new weapons drop. It's wrapped like a Christmas present from the universe that hates you."
Selene shifts her weight, scanning the alley below — two goons, nervous, smoking cheap cigarettes, boots soaked in puddles.
> "You said you wanted proof King Crow's real," she mutters.
"Yeah. Proof. Not a neon sign reading STAB ME HERE, I'M DUMB."
She almost smiles — but doesn't. Her gloved fingers flex around the hilt of a talon blade.
---
Down below
Detective Ward waits. Hidden in the next block over — unmarked car, rain dripping from the brim of his coat. He's been tailing the same rumor. And he's tired — of feathers, of masks, of new monsters learning the old tricks.
Next to him, Collins shifts uneasily.
> "So if she shows up, you really gonna try to grab her? Alone?"
Ward exhales a laugh that isn't one. "I don't 'grab' freaks in capes. I shoot them if they give me no choice."
His eyes flick to a rooftop shadow — a shape that shifts against the lightning split sky.
> She's here.
So is the trap.
---
The Flock's Gift
It happens fast. Too fast for rain or reason.
The crate cracks open — not guns, not drugs. Just a kid — duct tape over his mouth, bruises blooming purple under streetlamp glare. He stares up at Selene's shadow with wide, wet eyes.
She curses — drops — lands silent between the boy and the startled thugs. The first swings a pipe. She pivots, blade singing through rain. Artery open. Another rush — she twists, knee slams ribs, elbow crushes larynx.
The boy whimpers behind her — alive, but bait all the same.
---
Ward charges in from the shadows — gun drawn — yells over thunder:
> "Don't—! Raven, don't move—!"
He sees the kid, the bodies. Sees the blood on her claws. He aims at her mask, finger trembling on the trigger.
> "Hands. Now."
Selene locks eyes with him — black eyes behind a cracked visor, rain streaming down her jawline.
> "This isn't yours," she snarls.
"It is now. Step away from the boy."
"Ward—"
"Step. Away."
A distant clatter — more boots. Not cops. More Flock.
They come out of the dark, Crow's mask painted on black hoodies. Machetes. Pipes. Rusted chains.
A voice echoes from the alley's throat — reedy, slick, every syllable dipped in venom:
> "Hello, little bird. Do you like my offering?"
---
The Crow's Message
King Crow doesn't stand among them — not fully. Just a mask on an old TV propped on a trash can. Static flickers around the jagged crown etched into the forehead.
> "Detective Ward. The Raven. Together at last. I'm touched."
Ward shifts his aim — covers Selene's back without realizing it. She feels it — that fragile moment where enemies blur into allies when a worse predator circles them both.
The TV crackles. Crow's voice is calm, teasing — the city's cancer given silk and teeth.
> "See, your Surgeon thought himself an artist. Cute. But art means nothing if the audience isn't screaming."
He snaps gloved fingers off-screen — the Flock closes in.
> "Leave the boy. Stay and die. Or run — let the child drown in this city's filth. I want to see what your justice really costs."
---
Fight or Flee
Ward glances at her — the first real look where he sees the exhaustion, the cuts under the mask, the grim fury he almost respects.
> "What's it gonna be, Raven?" he asks.
She answers with steel — blade drawn, cloak spread wide. The boy's tiny whimpers fill the gap between thunderclaps.
Micah's voice crackles in her ear: "Don't die. Seriously. You owe me three drones and a therapy session."
She lunges — so does Ward. The first Flock thug swings — Ward blocks the pipe with his forearm, pistol butt slams teeth in. Selene's talons dance red lines on another's cheek. The boy scrambles back under a crate, knees hugged to his chest.
It's chaos — rain and fists and steel on bone. Ward and Raven — two predators back to back, unwilling allies under neon rain.
---
They Win — Barely
When the last thug hits the mud, Ward sags against a wall, blood dripping from a cut above his eyebrow. His breath fogs the night.
Selene kneels by the boy — checks his pulse, cups his face. He's alive. Bruised. But breathing.
Ward watches her. Sees not the mask — but the trembling fingers, the fracture line between myth and mortal.
> "He's safe," he mutters. "You're welcome."
She hisses, "He's bait. Next time it'll be more than bait."
Ward wipes blood from his mouth — half a smile in the dark. "Then next time, maybe don't wear feathers and terrorize my crime scenes."
She almost laughs. Almost.
---
Ward tries to cuff her
She sees it coming — the flicker of steel. She twists, slams him into the crate. Their faces inches apart — the boy squealing under the shock.
> "We're not done, Raven."
"No," she breathes back. "We're not."
Micah's drone buzzes — floodlights blind Ward just long enough. When his eyes clear, the alley is empty — save for the boy, sobbing in his arms, black feathers swirling in the gutter.
---
Later — The Nest
Selene slumps on the workbench. Micah dabs antiseptic on her knuckles while muttering about idiots who think they're immortal.
> "Crow's done waiting," Micah says softly. "You know that, right?"
She nods — silent, tired.
"He won't just send foot soldiers next time. He'll send you a mirror you can't shatter."
She doesn't answer. Just closes her eyes. Sees Ward's face. The boy's tears. Crow's mask flickering in static.
Somewhere under neon, the city waits — hungry for more wings. More blood. More feathers to scatter on the wind.
---
END OF CHAPTER SEVEN