Ashgate had always smelled like burnt rubber and old blood.
Even before I put on the mask, it was a district you didn't walk through unless you had a reason—or a death wish. I had both.
The rain hadn't stopped since the morgue. It dripped down the black armor beneath my coat, slid past the straps of my vest, and hissed against the steel of the grapple hook on my belt. Above me, street lamps flickered like they were trying to remember how to stay alive.
Micah's voice rasped through the earpiece.
> "You're too close to The Flock's nest, Raven. Their sentries sweep that street every five minutes."
"Then I've got four to make it count," I muttered.
He sighed — that tired sound of a man who'd seen too many friends end up in body bags.
> "Just remember: this isn't a case anymore. It's war."
War. That word had lost meaning in Ashfall. Every alley was a battlefield. Every heartbeat was borrowed time.
The abandoned warehouse at the end of the street used to be a textile mill. Now it pulsed with low red lights and mechanical hums. A Flock drop-point. My father's files said shipments came here twice a month — data chips, synthetic drugs, and weapons stamped with the Cindraline insignia. A family deal with criminals. That was all I needed to know.
I perched on the roof, boots silent against wet metal, and looked through a shattered skylight. Below, six armed men loaded crates into black vans. Each wore The Flock's emblem — a silver feather pinned to their collars. The way they moved told me they weren't amateurs. Ex-military, maybe.
Micah's tone sharpened.
> "Thermal's picking up something heavier on the east wall. Power lines. Generators. That's no storage — it's a lab."
A lab. I exhaled slow, steady.
The Flock wasn't just selling death anymore — they were manufacturing it.
I dropped through the skylight, landing between two guards. The first never saw me; the second barely screamed. My blade flashed once — clean, quick, merciless. Blood sprayed against a crate marked A-12: Biocircuit Testing.
More men rushed in. Bullets cracked the air, sparks leaping from pipes and rails. I rolled behind a forklift, threw a smoke pellet, and vanished into gray. Their panic tasted like iron and fear.
When I came out the other side, three were already down.
I moved like shadow — no wasted motion, no sound but breath and rain.
A shot grazed my shoulder. Pain bit deep, hot and bright. I didn't stop.
The last man swung a wrench; I caught his wrist, twisted until bone snapped, and slammed him into a crate. The impact crushed the box open — revealing rows of black chips pulsing with faint light.
Micah gasped through the comms.
> "Selene… that tech's military-grade. Neural intercepts. They're building something big."
"Or someone," I whispered.
Because on the table beside the chips was a photo.
Old, grainy, burned around the edges — but still clear enough to make my pulse stall.
It was my father. Detective Rowan Vale.
And beneath it, handwritten: PROJECT CROWBORN: SUBJECT TERMINATED.
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
Micah's voice broke through static.
> "Raven? You need to move. Backup's on route."
"No," I said softly. "They want me to see this."
I turned — and the warehouse door exploded inward.
Smoke and wind tore through the room. A figure walked out of the blast like the devil himself.
Tall, black coat, mask shaped like a bird's skull. The Flock's enforcer.
His voice was smooth, almost elegant beneath the distortion.
> "The little raven returns to her nest."
He lunged. The blade on his arm was longer than my forearm, humming with electric current. Our weapons clashed — steel on steel — the sound screamed through the storm.
He was fast. Trained. Every swing meant to kill.
But I'd been trained too.
I ducked low, drove my knee into his ribs, then spun behind him and smashed my elbow into the back of his neck. He staggered, hissed, and grabbed me by the throat.
> "King Crow said you'd come," he snarled. "Said to leave you breathing long enough to hear this — your father died for nothing."
I headbutted him hard enough to feel the crack. Blood burst from his nose.
> "So will you," I growled.
The fight ended with a flashbang and silence. When my vision cleared, he was gone — vanished into the maze of alleys and smoke.
I stood there shaking, blood dripping from my glove. The warehouse burned behind me. The chips, the files — all gone in flame. But the photo… that I kept.
By the time I reached the rooftops again, the sirens had started.
Ashfall's police — late, as usual. Or maybe bought, like everything else.
Micah spoke again, quieter now.
> "Selene, this isn't just about The Flock. Those chips— they tie into the Four Pillars. You're poking a goddamn empire."
"Then I'll burn their empire down, piece by piece," I said.
The city stretched beneath me — black veins glowing faintly under rain and smog.
Ashfall. My home. My curse.
When I reached the old clock tower, I saw it waiting for me.
Pinned to the stone wall with a steel knife — a single crow feather. Black and silver.
On it, scrawled in red:
"You wear the mask well, Raven. Let's see how long before it breaks." — K.C."
I stood there, cold and wet, the storm swallowing the world around me.
That was the moment I knew: King Crow wasn't hiding.
He was watching.
And he wanted me to play.