Ashfall's underbelly pulsed like an infected wound when the clock hit midnight. The Midtown blocks were wet with neon — pinks and greens flickering in cracked windows, busted street lamps buzzing overhead. Behind the storefronts that still pretended to be open, old brick warehouses rotted where The Flock made their shadows. And tonight, the shadows felt restless.
Selene moved through them like a rumor come alive — hood low, boots whispering over puddles that mirrored the city's broken grin. Above her, the old steel skeleton of a half-finished tower loomed — another piece of the Architect's grand expansion plan, empty floors waiting to be gutted by Umbra's contractors once the paperwork buried enough ghosts.
Micah's voice hummed soft through her earpiece, stitched to the cold wind. "You're close, Kain. Herald's inside — masked freak's got The Flock's lieutenants lined up like schoolboys. Something about new blood, new fear. Moloch Horn's name came up twice — they're spooked he's loose, not caged. That brute's too dumb to leash twice."
Selene slipped between rusted scaffolding. Below, a warehouse door hung open just enough to bleed yellow light onto the rain-black street. Voices drifted out — clipped, sharp, half-laughs that didn't belong to men who'd ever known real joy.
She dropped to a crouch behind a pile of old pallets, eyes locked on the shapes inside. The Herald — mask like porcelain cracked in all the wrong places, voice smooth as oil on water — spoke softly.
"…control the beast or become his meal. King Crow wants fear on the streets, not chaos without a leash. You forget that, and you'll end up feeding him piece by piece."
A young Flock grunt twitched, eyes wide. A gun butt cracked his temple — another warning gift. Selene felt her heartbeat steady, cold behind her ribs. She marked faces, counted steps. Micah fed her the building's blueprints — exits, blind corners, dead ends. She wouldn't kill tonight — not yet. But she'd remind them nightmares weren't the only thing Umbra bred in Ashfall.
---
Downtown, Iris Calder sat in the soft glow of her daughter's night-light. Maya Cadee's breathing was slow and sweet, clutching a cheap stuffed owl. Liam's door was cracked down the hall — too quiet for a boy his age. He'd heard her arguing with Nathan again. The cold edge in his eyes when he looked at his father stung more than any case file.
Nathan hadn't come home yet. Work, he'd said. Don't wait up.
Iris brushed a lock of hair from Maya Cadee's forehead, her badge digging cold into her hip as she leaned over. A good mother, a good detective — some nights, those words tasted like lies. She straightened up, tucked the blanket higher.
Her phone buzzed on the dresser — Navarro's message: Dockside lead turned up dead. Witnesses gone. Same calling card — feathers, throat slit. Captain says drop it. What do you want to do?
She typed back one word: Run.
---
At The Molted Wing, the jazz was low and the whiskey warmer than it had any right to be. Reggie Slate cleaned a glass with a rag older than half the bar's chairs, shotgun still propped behind the counter like a rumor with teeth.
Rowan Pierce hunched at the far end, notepad out, pen tapping the rim of her glass. She'd chased a lead into Dockside that night — and found locked doors, cold stares, and the faint rustle of feathers under garbage lids. She scribbled words that might never see print. Aria Morgan read the headlines Umbra fed her. Evan Holt shot the B-roll they told him to. But Rowan — she wanted something uglier. Real.
She caught Reggie's eye. "Slate. Who runs this city?"
Reggie snorted. "Who cares, darling? Just pay the tab."
She grinned, but the pen didn't stop. Somewhere in her notes, the rumor of a winged shadow danced between real monsters. One day, maybe she'd chase it straight into the dark. One day, it might look back.
---
In a flickering motel room on the city's frayed edge, Camilla Dupont scrubbed dried blood from her tiny metal tray. She hated it — the ache in her knuckles, the constant smell of antiseptic and secrets. But hate didn't change that sometimes a woman bleeding in her alleyway was worth more than a clean conscience.
A knock rattled the warped door. She stiffened, knife within reach. But the shadow that slipped in wasn't a threat — just a rumor in leather and bruises.
Selene leaned against the wall, breath shallow, eyes rimmed red from the night's crawl. "Got something coming," she rasped. "Might need your couch."
Camilla sighed, flicked the stained rag into the sink. "You know I hate when you show up like this."
Selene didn't apologize — she never did. She just sat down, peeled her jacket back to show fresh purple blooms along her ribs. Camilla's lips pressed tight.
"I should let you bleed," she muttered.
"But you won't," Selene said. And Camilla knew she was right.
---
By the courthouse steps, Lena Pryce's limo idled in the rain. Inside, she murmured into a burner phone — promises of truth to Ashfall's broken people, while her fingers tapped hush money numbers into encrypted apps. Mayor Greaves's voice crackled in her ear — praising her performance, offering more crumbs to leak next week to look clean. She didn't care if they all drowned, as long as she floated.
---
In Ironhaven, riot sirens cut through wet streets where old protest signs clogged storm drains. The Scourge's rumor clung to every brick — whispers of an avenger who'd burn corruption out with blade and bullet. Nobody had seen him yet. Nobody really wanted to. Not until Ashfall burned enough to bleed across city lines.
---
Back in the shadows of Midtown, Selene watched The Herald finish his sermon to The Flock lieutenants. A hush fell when he stepped out into the night, mask glinting under the street lamps like a smirk no one could touch.
Micah's voice slipped through her wire, low and steady. "One day, you'll put a knife in that mask, Kain."
Selene's lips twitched. Not quite a smile — but close. "One day."
She vanished into the scaffolding as The Herald's car pulled away. Umbra's strings glowed under Ashfall's bones — old wounds dressed up as new streets. She felt them pulse under her boots, veins of rot she'd cut out one feather at a time.
She slipped through the night. Black wings folded tight. The hunt never ended.
---
END OF CHAPTER TEN