Aria woke to the smell of smoke. Not the kind that clung to docks or back alleys—sweeter, stubborn, domestic. She dragged herself out of bed, hair a tangle, hoodie half-off one shoulder, and followed it to the kitchen.
Grandma was at the stove, spatula in hand, glaring down at a pan like it had personally betrayed her. The pancakes were black at the edges, soft in the middle, steam curling off them like surrender.
Aria leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, waiting. Usually this was the moment—her cue to crack wise, to lob some cheap shot about cremated breakfasts. But nothing came.
The silence stretched.
Grandma glanced up, one eyebrow raised, spatula hovering midair. "What, no jokes? You sick?"
Aria shook her head, tugging her hoodie straight. "Just not in the mood."
The old woman studied her like she could read the shadows under her eyes, the tired way she carried herself. For a second the spatula dipped, then she set the plate down between them. Burnt pancakes, stacked like charred coins.
Aria sat, fork in hand, but didn't move. Their eyes met across the table.
"You know," Grandma said finally, lowering herself into the chair opposite, "it's easy to laugh when the world's the same. Harder when it shifts under your feet." She tapped the fork against the plate, gentle, rhythmic. "But even burnt food fills a stomach. Even bitter days keep you alive."
Aria exhaled, slow. The joke hovered on her tongue but never landed.
"Guess I'm just tired of bitter," she muttered.
Grandma's smile was small, crooked, but her eyes stayed sharp. "Then you chew slower. Learn what the taste is trying to tell you."
The words sat heavier than the food between them. Aria stabbed a bite anyway, chewing like she was testing both the pancake and herself.
*****************
Her phone buzzed on the table.
Tarō:
"Yo. You gone to see Cole yet?"
Aria thumbed back:
"Yeah. Today. Heading there soon."
Another ping:
"Good. Jarvis asked if you're okay.
(By "asked" I mean when you coming back to work). You know him."
Aria smirked, fingers tapping:
*Tell him in no time."
She pocketed the phone, stood, and pulled on her bomber.
---
The streets of Crow turf breathed different now. Not just smoke and banners—memory written in spray paint. Two kids leaned against a wall, filling in a mural: a giant black crow tearing at a ship, feathers wide, talons hooked in steel. One boy stepped back, shook the can, then hissed approval like he'd seen a god.
Aria slowed, breath catching. The image was too fresh, too real. A story already bigger than the truth.
******************"****
Cole's house wasn't loud this time. The bass and laughter had been stripped out, leaving only the creak of floorboards and the faint smell of antiseptic under weed. His mother met Aria at the door, circles under her eyes, apron dusted with flour. She forced a tired smile.
She reached out, squeezed Aria's arm with surprising strength.
"Good seeing you, girl," she said, voice low but steady. "We're glad you came."
his father stood at the sink, wringing out a towel into a bucket of ice. The sound of water striking metal filled the kitchen. No words needed—just the kind of silence that carried weight.
Aria gave a small nod, the squeeze still warming her shoulder as she slipped inside.
Upstairs, Cole lay sprawled in bed. The room smelled of alcohol wipes and rusted iron. Bandages wrapped him from hip to chest, another binding his shoulder. An IV dripped from a rigged stand built from scrap pipe. No hospitals—too many questions, too much paper. Gangs kept their wounded close, stitched by hands they trusted.
His eyes cracked half open when she entered. His lips curved, weak but stubborn.
"Don't look at me like that," he rasped, voice like gravel. "Usually I charge extra for the half-naked show."
Aria dragged a chair closer, smirk tugging at her mouth. "Could've fooled me. You look like shit."
He wheezed, a laugh that broke into coughs. Pain wracked through him, but he forced a crooked grin. "Fuck you."
She leaned back, crossing her legs. "You wish."
Silence, save for the drip of the IV. His breath was shallow, ribs rising uneven. For a moment he just stared at her, then blinked slow, eyes heavy as stone.
"You're back on runs?" he managed.
"Tonight," she said, tilting her head. "Gotta eat. Gotta keep lights on."
He shut his eyes, exhaled sharp, and spoke again—each word slow, like hauling bricks.
"Then you should know… there was a Crow once. Silas Vey."
His tone changed, drifting from confession to something older, heavier—like passing down a tale.
"Born into the ink same as us. Raised in Crow turf. But Silas… he wasn't built to wait. Ambition burned him faster than loyalty could hold. He stacked money, traded with Lotus in the dark. And one day, he didn't come back. Shaved his edges. Hid his wings under suits. Learned to walk like them, talk like them. Ate their rich food. Slept in their towers."
Aria frowned. "He just left?"
Cole's jaw tightened. "Not left. Chose. He earned their trust. Became Lotus. And now…" He coughed again, wincing, but forced it out. "Now he wears their colors, but he remembers us. Loves us. Hates us. Loves me, maybe most of all."
His head turned, gaze finding hers. "If you're ever cornered if coin's short, or worse tell him I sent you. Silas won't shut his door. Not to me."
Aria's lips curved, but her eyes stayed sharp. "That sounds almost like you're giving me a fairy godfather."
Cole chuckled, weak, broken by another cough.
"More like a wolf dressed in silk, still dreaming of feathers."
Aria tilted her head, studying him for a bit then let the smirk creep back.
She shifted sliding one knee onto the mattress. The frame creaked under her weight as she leaned in, eyes gleaming with mischief.
"I'd love to stay and play nurse. Crawl under, keep you warm."
Cole's breath stuttered—half pain, half hunger—and he let out a ragged grin.
"Careful… I'm more broken glass than man right now."
Her smirk softened, but only for a blink. She eased back into the chair, crossing her legs slow,
"Guess I'll let you suffer, then."
His laugh came rough, cracked by coughs, but his eyes clung to her like a tether, stubborn, alive. Even torn up, swaddled in bandages, he was still cut from iron, handsome in that raw, dangerous way that no wound could erase.
She leaned forward again, slow this time, and pressed her lips gently to his forehead.
"Rest," she whispered. "World's not done with you yet."
His eyes shut, slow, surrendering to the weight.
Aria straightened, slipped from the room, and by the time the door clicked shut she was already heading back to her scooter.
*********************
Behind her lingered antiseptic and shadows. Ahead, mozzarella and stoners.
The bell over the pizza shop door gave its cheap little jingle. Inside, the smell was all oregano and motor oil, dough rising slow beside crates stacked with envelopes instead of cheese.
Jarvis sat at the counter, a computer glow painting him ghost-pale. His head dipped, jerked up, dipped again. A cigarette trembled between two fingers, unlit, forgotten.
Aria slid up behind him, dead quiet. She lifted the mop handle from its bucket, angled it like a joint, and nudged it to his lips.
Without opening his eyes, he inhaled. Coughed. Eyes flew open—then narrowed.
"Fuck off, star-girl." He tried to look annoyed, but his lips twitched.
Aria leaned on the counter, smirk sharp. "Don't blame me. You were about to fall asleep on the job. Again."
Jarvis rubbed his face. "I wasn't asleep. I was… practicing tactical blinking."
"Oh yeah?" she said. "From here, looked like a nap with sound effects."
He wagged the mop at her like a sword. "Careful. This thing's seen wars."
"Bet it won."
"Bet it didn't." He chuckled, then sobered just enough to shuffle papers from the counter. "You've got a run tonight. Not the usual. Deacon asked for you. By name. The star girl. Said he wants the one with the ink under her eye."
Aria's grin dimmed, but only a little. "Guess the fan club's expanding."
Jarvis' shrug was half sympathy, half warning. "Or he's bored. With him it's the same thing."
*****************
The Hollow Suns' turf didn't need neon. Their mark was absence. Streets too clean, alleys too quiet, air humming with unease.
At the end of one block sat a laundromat that should've been ordinary buzzing fluorescents, detergent smell, chrome doors yawning open. But behind its neat rows of humming machines, Deacon kept his war-room. The front was soap and spin cycles. The back was silence and decisions.
Aria stepped inside, the doorbell giving a hollow chime. She carried the box forward, boots scuffing tiles that gleamed too white.
Deacon stood at the far counter, back to her, coat draped loose. His presence filled the room without moving.
She slid the box onto the counter, letting it thud louder than it needed to.
"Second time I'm bringing you dinner you're not gonna eat," she muttered. "Starting to feel like déjà vu with worse pay."
Deacon didn't turn, not right away. His voice drifted over his shoulder, smooth but edged.
"Don't worry. I see you, even when you think I don't."
That pulled a twitch from her mouth. She crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. Almost under her breath, but not quiet enough:
"Yeah? Funny. I don't see much spark in yours."
That made him turn.
His face was sharp lines carved in patience, his eyes black marble under the flicker. He held her in his gaze like she was a line in a ledger that wouldn't balance.
"A spark," he said slowly, voice low and measured, "is a fragile thing, star child. Fragile enough to vanish in the hollow of a hand. One breath—gone. One gust—forgotten. That's all it takes."
He let the words hang, then pressed on, steady as a sermon.
"But if it catches? If the spark finds breath instead of silence—then it grows. It grows reckless, it grows hungry. It doesn't stay a spark. It becomes fire. And fire doesn't ask. Fire doesn't beg. It decides. Decides who warms their hands and who screams in the ash."
His eyes were on her now, hard as stone but lit with something she couldn't name.
"Most people think they carry sparks in their pockets. Little lights, easy to trade, easy to kill. They forget sparks carry them. Choose them. Burn them or crown them. The city was built on that mistake."
He leaned a fraction closer, voice dipping.
"And once fire chooses you… child, you don't get to walk away clean. You either carry it—or it carries you."
His last words sank into the hum of the machines.
For a heartbeat, Aria thought the silence was only in the room—until she felt it under her skin.
A prickle. A crawl. Like invisible fingers running along her throat.
Her hand flew up, brushing the leather choker. And there just above it ink shimmered. Black, faint, like dust catching light, but moving. Crawling. The DEATH mark she carried, the one she never asked for, creeping higher as if it wanted to be seen.
Deacon's eyes locked on it. The calm in him cracked. His face—always marble, always measured—pulled tight, unsettled.
The overhead bulb flickered once. Twice. Then held, humming like it knew something.
Deacon stepped back, slow, almost reverent. His voice was quieter now, but heavy, like stone rolled down a mountainside.
"Careful, star child. A collar like that—it can look like protection. But sometimes… it just tightens. And when it does, it doesn't choke you alone. It drags someone else down with you."
The words hung, not threat, not comfort—something heavier, like prophecy whispered sideways.
Then he shut his eyes, exhaled through his teeth, and rubbed his temple like he'd just fought off a migraine. The mask slid back into place. Smooth. Smug. Controlled.
"Late hour," he muttered, a thin laugh under the breath. "Mind plays tricks."
By the time he opened his eyes again, the grin was back, brittle but polished. He waved a hand as if brushing away smoke.
"Off you go, pizza girl."
The red slip on the box glowed faint under the fluorescents.
****************
Aria swallowed hard, the taste of metal thick in her mouth. Her tongue felt heavy. She didn't want to ask, but the silence would crush her if she didn't break it.
She cleared her throat, forced her voice level.
"What's with the ticket?"
Deacon blinked like he'd forgotten it existed. A shake of the head, small, sharp, as if he were snapping himself back into the room.
"Ah. Yes."
He tapped the edge of the box, eyes narrowing as though he weighed each syllable.
"Listen close. Tomorrow morning, ten sharp. You'll take it to the Lotus turf. The Orchid Spire."
The name carried its own perfume—rich, dangerous, sweet like poison.
"Top floor," he said, voice slow, deliberate. "You tell them it's from Deacon. Nothing more. Nothing less."
Aria frowned, shifting the box under her arm. The fluorescents above flickered once, twice, before humming steady again.
Deacon leaned back, a shadow cutting across his face. His smile was a line of steel.
"And if they ask you why it's you delivering it… let them wonder."
The red slip pulsed faint against the cardboard like a live ember.
*********************
She carried the ember out into the dark.
Next morning traded it for fur balls and peace.
The apartment was quiet, no smell of burnt pancakes, no clatter of pans, no Gran humming old war songs. Just light, golden and forgiving, spilling across the cracked blinds. Ash the cat was gone with her, but his presence lingered in the form of fur balls clumped on the rug, little ghosts of mischief.
Aria stretched, a cat's grace hidden in the laziness, and padded to the bathroom. Steam rose quick, curling against the mirror as the water hissed alive. She peeled off her shirt, skin catching the light in soft geometry: collarbones sharp, hips curved, strength stitched under beauty she never bothered to name.
Under the shower's hiss, she tilted her head back, fingers scrubbing along the ink at her throat. The script that's usually hidden beneath the choker gleamed wet, water threading over her skin. Droplets gathered at her collarbone, then slipped lower, tracing the curve of her perky chest before vanishing into the steam. She smirked at her own reflection in the fogged glass.
"Death. to germs," she muttered, and let the water swallow the laugh.
By the time she laced her boots, the mirror showed someone who looked like she'd slept more than she had—hair damp, lips bare, eyes stubborn. She slipped the red slip from her jacket pocket, stared at it for a bit, then slid it into her bag.
Aria zipped her bag, pulled her phone out.
One message to Tarō:
"You busy? Got a delivery. Fancy side of town."
His reply was instant:
"Shit yeah. Ain't missing a chance to embarrass you in front of rich people."
She rolled her eyes but typed back:
"Meet me in ten."
***************
Meanwhile at the meeting.
Glass kissed the sky. The Orchid Spire was less a building than a statement mirrors stacked on steel, a jewel dropped into the city's rot. Inside, the conference chamber glowed with quiet wealth: mahogany table, orchids floating in crystal bowls, a view of the river that turned men into ants.
It was an emergency council. The docks had bled three nights ago, and the Serpents demanded answers. So the heads gathered in the Orchid Spire.
At the head, -Kaien of the Lotus- sat composed as calligraphy. His white suit gleamed like ivory under the lights, copper-red hair tied back with silk. The lacquered fan in his hand tapped once, twice, against polished mahogany. Every motion was ritual, every pause deliberate. He was the youngest at the table, yet carried himself like history owed him deference.
Kaien's fingers stopped their tapping. "The ink," he said, soft as a prayer. "Where is it?"
To his right,- Bruno of the Iron Fangs- shifted. Fifty-five years of steelwork and back-alley wars were hammered into him, arms thick as girders, knuckles scarred from factories and fights. His blond hair was cropped close, his jaw squared as the anvils he once bent steel over. But tonight, his jaw worked without sound. He said nothing. Silence thickened, heavy as iron dust.
It was -Nyx of the Serpents- who broke it. She lounged back like coils unspooling, bangles chiming at her wrist, dark silk scales clinging to her body. Green eyes glimmered, sly and venom-bright. "Bruno, if you bite this quiet, people might forget you've got teeth at all."
Across from her, -Morrin of the Ash Crows- stirred. Once he'd been taller, straighter; now age had folded him into angles, a frame hunched like wings half-broken. His nose cut sharp, beak-like, his hair the color of storm.
His long coat trailed like molted feathers. When he turned his head, it was slow as dusk descending.
"Let us not pretend feathers are cleaner than scales, my dear," Morrin rasped, crow-feather voice dragging over stone. "We are what we are. If we were good people, we would not sit at this table."
He leaned forward, bones casting shadows sharper than his words. "So forgive A little nip at each other's heels." Chaos is appetite. Appetite is proof we're alive. Without it…" His shoulders rose, bony and deliberate. "…we'd be nothing but ghosts playing at civility."
Nyx's smile didn't falter, but her eyes narrowed to emerald slits. "Your chaos left a dozen of my men bleeding at the docks."
Morrin blinked once, deliberate, like an owl measuring prey. "And yet, here you sit. Breathing. Beautiful. Coiled for strike. Proof enough the world is balanced still."
****************
While the council measured power in glass and silence, Aria and Tarō moved through the city's pulse.
The city shifted with every block. Concrete turned to glass, graffiti into LED ads, smoke into perfume that cost more than rent. The Orchid Spire rose above it all like a finger wagging at the poor.
Inside the lobby: marble, fountains, silence bought by money. Receptionists in matching suits looked them over like stains on the floor.
"Name?" one asked, flat.
Aria set the bag on the counter, voice firm.
"Delivery. From Deacon. For the meeting upstairs."
The receptionist's brows twitched. Phone lifted, a quick call upstairs. A pause. A nod.
"You're cleared. Alone."
Tarō leaned on the counter, grinning wide. "Alone? You sure? She gets lost easy. Needs me to hold her hand."
"Not happening," the receptionist said without looking at him.
Tarō clicked his tongue, threw Aria a mock salute. "Fine. I'll guard the cookies down here. Very important mission."
***************
The elevator hummed her higher and higher, glass walls giving her the sprawl of the city in a dizzying sweep. Her pulse climbed with it.
At the top, a corridor hushed by carpet, two men in Lotus white waiting by double doors. One pushed them open without a word.
Inside: a table of predators, orchids floating in still water, and eyes that turned to her all at once.
The door shut behind her
with the weight of judgment.
Every gaze, sharp as a blade, pinned her in place—like prey that had walked into the lion's den.
**********************