As twilight fell, the city's surface seemed to unravel: rooftops of sheet metal glinted cold, wires drooped under a coat of frost, and windows were sealed shut with plastic or plywood. In the distance, a siren wailed, its call echoed moments later by two crows lifting from their perch on a water tower. They circled the block, croaking at the day's newest carrion.
Three floors above, Rene crouched on the ledge, mouth open in a shallow pant as he watched the street. If he'd had fur, it would have bristled. Instead, he carried the reek of detergent and cold sweat, wrapped in a drooping hoodie and patchwork jeans.
The cold didn't faze him. He dragged his thumbnail along the building's edge, carving a tiny crescent into the concrete—just big enough for an ant to crawl through.
He leaned farther out, enough that his foot peeled off the ledge for a moment, and scanned the street. Nothing but wet cardboard, a dented trash bin, and a few hunched silhouettes watching from behind wire screens. The good people of this block had learned not to intervene.
Below, the enforcers had their catch. The arrested man's face was a marbled, waxy gray, one horn snapped. He slumped between the officers like a weekend drunk, arms limp in plastic cuffs, a line of drool dangling from his chin to his jacket.
An enforcer prodded the man's head with a gloved hand, maybe expecting resistance. Instead, the man slumped even more, his legs dragging against the rubber curb as the two officers struggled to hoist him up again.
"Where's his tag?" the first officer said.
The second one, a woman with hair shaved to the bone, spat on the ground. "Wrist. Right side. Check his pulse."
The man's body twitched in their grip—not a protest, more the limp shudder of someone pulled from warm water into a tub of ice.
"He's still breathing," the woman said, voice flat. "Let's go."
A delivery van coughed by, splashing brown slush across the curb. The enforcers pressed their prisoner up against a corroded gate. They spent a minute fumbling with a keypad, grunting as the man slumped even further, then shoved him through as the lock buzzed.
Inside the gated lot, another squad car idled, windows fogged, exhaust pooling over the cracked pavement like morning mist. The arrested man slumped to his knees now, face smearing against a chain-link fence, while the enforcers argued over something on a tablet screen.
"ID's not matching," the woman said.
The man poked the slumped figure with the toe of his boot. "Get up," he said. "Come on. Up. What's your code, freak?"
The arrested man groaned. His head lolled side to side, soft as a sock full of meat.
"Don't think he's got words," the woman said, laughing with the low, short bark of someone who'd seen this too many times to care.
The squad car's front door opened. A third enforcer stepped out, cradling a mug of something hot, and glared at the others. "We taking him or not?"
"Tablet's glitching," the first officer said. "You got the override code?"
"Hell no," the new one said. "Try hitting it."
The woman did. The tablet's casing split a little, but it started scrolling again, this time with the right profile photo. She grinned, handed it over, and got back to work dragging the arrested man upright.
Rene swung himself up from the ledge and perched on the fire escape, one hand wrapped around the cold steel, the other plucking at loose flakes of paint.
He crept down a rung. The city's iron skeleton groaned beneath him, but he was light, his steps measured and precise. The alley floor was only a few meters away—easy distance. He could jump and land.
But he waited. Watched. He needed to know where they were taking him.
The enforcer with the coffee sipped, watching the blacked-out man with dead eyes. "How much you wanna bet he remembers all this tomorrow?"
[With that? Yeah, good luck.]
The first officer grunted. "He won't."
Rene nodded, approving the assessment.
The enforcers hoisted the man into the squad car. The door slammed with a flat, metallic echo. The engine revved. Rene watched the taillights pulse red against the alley walls, then vanish as the car merged into traffic.
A trickle of movement caught his eye—a green bug, lost and desperate, climbing the ridge of his shoe.
[Leave it. Observation first.]
He scooped the insect up and crushed it in his fist. It writhed once—twice—then went limp. A quick sniff. Then he opened his hand.
The bug slipped out, tumbling toward the street below—
—and black wings exploded where Rene had stood. A crow dove through the night, snatching the falling carcass midair. A green wing still twitched between its beak as it banked sharply, vanishing into the dark after the enforcer van.
Wind clawed at Rene's feathers as he launched. The city blurred beneath him in a smear of light and shadow. He tracked the van with eerie precision, gliding over rooftops, skimming past streetlights, each neon pulse flashing across his eyes. He cut through the night like a blade, silent and relentless—a predator stalking prey through the fractured veins of the city.
[FASTER!] the voices urged, wings beating in thought.[Don't lose the scent.] another cooed, clipped and cold.
At the intersection, Rene dropped onto a nearby balcony on all fours. Concrete scraped his knuckles as he steadied himself, eyes locked on the van crossing the bridge.
Above, the crows glided in silence, black shapes against the glow—watching him as he watched the van. All except one. A younger bird peeled away from the flock, trailing the van with stubborn wings.
Rene lingered on the bridge, sitting cross-legged with his hands tucked into his hoodie, his gaze locked straight ahead.
The bridge cut the world in half. Behind him, the city was dense and suffocating. But the city sprawled in front of him was bigger and prettier. Skyscrapers scraped the stars. Bright billboards lit their faces. News tickers crawled across glass like ants, flashing headlines.
The whole place glowed—neon and chrome stitched together, giving it a futuristic look.
But most stunning of all were the drones. Swarms of drones buzzed overhead like mechanical mosquitoes, red beams sweeping everything. Nothing here moved without being seen.
The van slowed at the checkpoint beyond the bridge. The lone crow swooped in, aiming for the roof—A thin white laser cracked the air.
The bird dropped like a stone, skull punctured clean. A drone hovered above, impassive.
The rest of the murder shrieked, their wings cutting through the air in a chaotic frenzy, but beyond that, silence—as the fallen crow's body was scanned by a red laser and discarded into the river below.
Rene's eyes lingered on the hovering machines.
"Evolution must be proud," he muttered.
His voice was low, but the circling crows answered with a unified sweep of wings, like a silent agreement.
[we can follow them]
"No need."
He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and turned away.
The golden skyline faded behind him with every step, its glow thinning into the night.
He knew where the van was headed. He didn't need to follow it—not yet. Answers waited elsewhere.
"Let's see what this city's hiding," he said quietly, disappearing into the shadows.
Rene's footsteps echoed in the stairwell, a hollow, uneven rhythm bouncing off cracked concrete. The building smelled of mildew and burnt wires, the elevator long dead, doors smeared with fingerprints. He reached Shaal's apartment door, the lock clicked under his touch, and the door groaned open, releasing a stale, dusty breath.
The apartment was empty, shadows pooling in corners like they'd taken permanent residence. The faint hum of broken neon from the street below flickered through the blinds, casting jagged stripes across the floor. He moved with practiced caution, scanning every surface. He didn't know what he was looking for—only that whatever it was, it might be here.
He moved like a predator, crouching low, hand brushing over surfaces, scanning for anything out of place.
His eyes caught a glint on the coffee table: a stack of papers, slightly yellowed, edges curling.
He flipped through them. Notes. Diagrams. Maps of streets and alleyways, scribbled with shorthand he could barely understand. Receipts, numbers, cryptic codes. Most of it was useless repetition. A few pages he tucked under his arm—routes, times, names. Maybe important, maybe not.
Then a faint smell caught him—burnt coal.
He followed it to the small safe hidden beneath the floorboards, its lock scratched and hinges slightly warped. Rene slipped his hand under the lid, feeling the sharp metal bite into his skin, and tore it open with a rip like fabric. Inside, a duffel bag sagged against the wall.
He opened it slowly, revealing the familiar gleam of metal—guns, knives, a small arsenal laid out with precision. His fingers brushed the cold steel, both familiar and unfamiliar. Weapons spoke in a language he understood—concise, brutal, honest.
[Weapons. Functional. Prioritized.]
A photo leaned against the stack, forgotten or deliberately placed. Archis and Shaal. Smiling at the camera, cones of ice cream in hand. Their laughter captured in stillness. He set the photo down—too carefully.
[i wonder what happened]
Continuing his search, he drifted to the shelf against the far wall. Plastic cases, stacked unevenly, titles faded from overuse. Video games. One named Zombie… something caught his eyes. It was cleaner than its peers. Inside: a joystick and a CD. Rene turned it over, shaking its contents. The CD clattered to the floor; a small metal key followed. He picked it up, the cool metal pressing against his skin, and slid it into his pocket. Weight signified purpose. He'd figure out which later.
He dropped onto the threadbare couch, the photo resting beside him, almost forgotten as the hum of the old console came to life. The screen on the side table flickered, colors blooming against the shadowed walls. Startled, Rene jumped a foot at the sudden noise.
The screen lit up, throwing blue light across the darkened apartment. Rene leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching as a pale hand clawed through dirt on the loading screen. He blinked once, slow, like an animal tasting a new smell.
The screen demanded he select the start button to run. Rene debated for a few minutes, then picked it up. The controller felt wrong in his hands—too light, too many buttons—useless. He turned it over like it might reveal a hidden blade if he pressed the right spot.
The screen lit up in violent colors: rotting faces lunging, blood spattering. A title he couldn't pronounce screamed across the screen.
Following the prompts, he pressed forward. His character stumbled like a drunk man with a gun. The first zombie grabbed him. On instinct, Rene jerked the controller like it was a knife. Nothing. The screen flashed red. YOU DIED.
Rene squinted. "That's it? One bite and I'm dead?"
[Thats pathetic.]
Tossing the controller aside, already fed up with the attention-grabbing time-waster, he collapsed onto the couch. The leather felt rough against his skin, the cushions sinking under his weight. Closing his eyes, he pictured Archis and Shaal laughing again, ice cream cones melting faster than they could eat, their faces glowing with life and joy. A flicker of something indescribable stirred in his chest—sharp and unwelcome.
Outside, a siren cut through the city's haze. Inside, Rene leaned back, staring at the flickering screen. The key burned in his pocket, the photo still too heavy in his hand. The game was a distraction, but the room—this messy, cluttered, human room—was a map of someone else's truths. And Rene, always hunting, always calculating, knew he had to follow them.
He picked the controller up again. The game waited, but so did the apartment. Secrets weren't going to reveal themselves, but the photo, the key, the smell of old paper and steel—they'd all come back into focus soon enough. He just needed to keep playing, keep looking, and let the city outside bleed its answers into his hands.