Night stretched over the city like an unspoken verdict.
Above the skyline, ravens cut through the dark–dozens of them–wings slicing silence into fragments. Their feathers swallowed light. Their eyes did not.
Crimson pupils burned faintly as they moved, scanning streets, alleys, rooftops, windows. Each bird took a different route, weaving between buildings with unnatural precision–adjusting paths, correcting angles, mapping the city like patrol units bound by an invisible grid.
Through those eyes, the world did not appear as humans saw it.
Heat bled into color.
Motion sharpened into intent.
Sound carried weight.
Laughter glowed dull and harmless. Arguments flared brighter. Fear pulsed sharp and erratic.
Then–
Metal screamed.
Glass exploded.
A sudden spike tore through the city's silent pattern.
One raven banked sharply and descended.
It landed on the edge of a twenty-four-story rooftop, claws gripping concrete worn smooth by wind and neglect. Below, traffic had collapsed into chaos–vehicles twisted at wrong angles, headlights flickering like dying stars. A crowd was already forming.
The raven remained still.
Then shadow moved.
Black smoke poured from its body–not drifting, but folding inward, collapsing as though obeying a command gravity had forgotten. Feathers dissolved into mist. Bone stretched. Shape corrected itself.
A man stood where the raven had been.
He rested both forearms atop a black-polished staff planted firmly against the rooftop. Its length reached from ground to his waist, perfectly measured. The surface curled with intricate spirals, dark as sealed ink. At its crown sat an oval amber–bluish-black, like a fragment of night sky trapped mid-collapse.
Within it, something turned.
Galaxies did not belong there.
Yet they moved.
He wore black–not a suit, not robes. A single seamless garment extended to his knees, its construction impossible to define. No buttons. No seams. No visible opening. It neither clung nor draped, as though it recognized his form and stopped there by choice.
A peculiar hat rested atop his head–feather-strands woven into a shape no human culture had ever named, bending perception when stared at too long.
A pocket watch hung from his wrist.
It ticked.
He leaned forward and looked down.
At first, the scene below appeared distant–small, insignificant. People clustered like ants around twisted steel and shattered glass.
Then his vision adjusted.
Distance collapsed.
Sound sharpened.
Faces came into focus.
Police lights washed the street in alternating blue and red.
"Hold traffic. Both lanes. Now."
"Cone that side. Give them space."
Medics knelt beside the wreckage.
"Male, approximately thirty-five. Unconscious. Weak pulse."
"Airway compromised–get suction."
"Pressure here. Don't move the spine."
A stretcher rolled forward.
"Second patient?"
"Female. Semi-conscious. Leg fracture, heavy bleeding."
"Tag red. She goes first."
Nearby, an officer crouched low, eyes on the asphalt.
"No skid marks."
"Impact angle's wrong."
"Vehicle intrusion is severe."
"Possible sudden obstruction?"
"Mark it. We'll review CCTV."
Phones were raised.
"Put the cameras down," an officer said calmly. "This is an active scene."
A woman cried into her hands.
The injured were loaded.
Doors slammed.
Sirens rose–and faded.
Chalk marked the road. Evidence tags bloomed like pale flowers.
Minutes passed.
The street grew quiet again.
Marked. Logged. Reduced to data.
A raven fluttered down and settled on the man's shoulder.
Another launched from the rooftop and descended, landing atop a parked superbike near the cordon. From there, it watched–silent, patient–listening through senses that did not belong to the human world.
Assumptions formed below.
Procedural.
Incomplete.
Eventually, the dead were covered.
The living were taken away.
The crowd dispersed.
The raven remained until the last patrol car pulled off–then lifted its wings and returned to the rooftop.
The man finally looked at it.
No words were exchanged.
The city breathed on–unaware it had been judged, recorded, and left unchanged.
The watch ticked.
Then–
Engines rolled in.
Not fast.
Not loud.
Black military-grade Hummers entered the street and stopped with mechanical precision. Matte frames swallowed reflection. No insignia. Only codes meaningless to civilians.
Doors opened.
Boots met asphalt.
"Lock it down."
The command was quiet–but absolute.
Police froze mid-motion. Civilians stiffened.
"Everyone stays where you are," a voice announced. "Phones down. Hands visible."
The Chief Head stepped forward first. He did not look at the wreckage.
He looked at people.
Shock.
Fear.
Curiosity.
Guilt.
Patterns registered.
"Lead."
The Lead Inspector moved beside him, tablet active.
"Perimeter was partially processed before our arrival."
"Noted."
Two CID operatives moved through the gathered crowd.
"Face forward." Click.
"Thumb." Beep.
"Clear. Move."
Photo. Print. Release.
Fast. Impersonal.
At the wreckage, the Lead Inspector crouched.
"No skid marks."
"Angle inconsistent with straight-line travel."
"Camera coverage?"
"Intersection cam. Three private feeds."
"I'll pull them."
The Chief approached the covered body.
"Time of death?"
"Declared en route," an officer replied. "Pulse dropped–"
"I'll hear it from medical."
The Medical Examiner had already checked the ambulance bay.
"Male, mid-thirties. Massive internal trauma," she said calmly.
"Not all injuries align with vehicular impact."
"Clarify."
"Compression fractures, ribs three through six. Angle suggests secondary force before ground contact."
Her assistant photographed silently.
Nearby, the Forensic Officer knelt, tools unfolding with surgical precision.
"Microfractures on asphalt," she said.
"Not consistent with tire stress."
She adjusted her scope.
"Metallic residue. Not from the vehicle."
The Lead Inspector looked up.
"External factor?"
"Possible. Lab confirmation required."
The Chief exhaled slowly.
"This wasn't an accident."
No one reacted.
They were already moving.
"Seal all footage."
"Pull first responder logs."
"Flag witnesses for secondary interviews."
He straightened and scanned the skyline.
For a brief moment, his gaze passed over the rooftop.
He felt nothing.
Above him, the Spectator rested both arms on his staff.
The amber darkened.
A small smile touched his lips.
Not satisfaction.
Recognition.
He stepped forward–
–and let himself fall.
Wind tore past him as the city rushed upward. Halfway down, his form fractured. Shadow split into motion, into feathers, into many.
Ravens burst outward.
One followed the ambulance through narrowing streets.
One shadowed a night patrol unit.
One slipped silently behind the black Hummers of the DoD.
Others spread wider–dozens–filling the city's grid from every direction.
The streets were never unobserved.
At the crash site, a single raven descended and landed atop the warped wheel of the destroyed car.
Black smoke folded inward.
The Spectator stood there once more.
He bent his knees and crouched.
Between twisted metal and a torn seatbelt lay something small.
A half-burned photograph.
A wedding necklace–its locket cracked open, a smiling couple frozen inside.
One edge charred.
Unnatural.
He lifted the photo with two fingers and touched it gently with the tip of his staff.
The burned edge crumbled into ash.
Those ashes did not scatter.
They traced a line.
A path.
He followed it across the asphalt–past shattered glass and oil stains–until it ended at a shallow mark carved into the road.
A scratch.
Precise.
Embedded within it lay a deformed bullet.
He picked it up.
Shadow swallowed space.
Light returned.
He stood in an abandoned structure overlooking the city's edge. A rifle rested against a ledge–still warm. Automated. Timed. Designed to fire once.
A clean plan.
"Good," the Spectator said quietly.
He closed his eyes.
The city unfolded.
Through hundreds of crimson eyes, motion sharpened into clarity. Routes. Speeds. Intentions.
Found.
A superbike tore through an outer district toward the highway.
"Things done in shade," the Spectator said, opening his eyes,
"cannot be hidden from the eyes of the Spectator in shadow."
He tapped his staff.
Once.
Twice.
The rider vanished.
The bike continued forward for a fraction of a second–then toppled, skidding harmlessly to a stop.
–
White.
Endless.
No horizon. No walls. No sky.
A Court.
Broad steps ascended toward a towering throne of judgment–vast and unadorned. Ravens lined each stair's edge, unmoving, red eyes fixed forward.
On either side stood thrones–five to the left, five to the right–empty, silent.
Flanking the stairs rose massive figures.
Raven gods, humanized in form, carved from obsidian-like stone.
Closest to the throne, a pair bore enormous swords, points driven into the floor.
Before them, another pair held spears, tips angled downward.
At the front, a final pair gripped colossal axes, blades resting against the ground.
No emblems.
No inscriptions.
Only authority.
At the summit, the Spectator sat upon the throne.
He leaned forward slightly, staff resting against the steps.
Pride and judgment radiated from him without effort.
The man below trembled.
The Spectator's voice carried.
"Guilty," he asked calmly,
"or not?"