Perfect — let's fly straight in. I'll write this next as a long continuous chapter, weaving Sel
Friday Night
Selene Arlen's phone buzzes under the morgue's harsh white lights.
EVAN: Dinner tomorrow? My place? I cook, you show up on time for once?
She types Yes. Hits send before her resolve crumbles. A promise. She'll break it. She always does.
Behind her, a body bag waits on a steel tray. She zips it open — male, 20s, single GSW to the temple. Cheap ink curls up his neck: a crow feather tangled in barbed wire. Another ghost for her collection.
---
In the corner, Phelps, half-drunk as usual, pretends to tidy a file cabinet that's never seen order.
> "Heard the feather freak hit the East Docks again," he says, voice low.
Selene lifts an eyebrow. "What freak?"
He snorts. "C'mon, Arlen. Whole city's buzzing. Some psycho in a cape slicing gangbangers like roast beef. The Raven. You think she's real?"
She shrugs. "If she is, I hope she's smart enough to keep her head down."
Phelps belches a laugh. "Ain't nobody smart in this city, sweetheart. Not the freaks, not the cops. Not even you."
She slips him a folded bill as she passes. He pockets it without looking. "The Flock moving again?"
He nods. "Warehouse on 19th. Word is, big buy tonight. Might be more bodies for you come Monday."
"Can't wait," she says flatly.
---
Saturday Afternoon
Sunlight feels wrong on her skin. She sits with Jess at a sidewalk café, pretending the city's not rotting under their chairs.
Jess flicks the foam on her latte. "You need to quit that job. Get a normal gig. Night shifts in a basement with dead people? It's why you're always—"
> "Always what?" Selene asks.
Jess softens. "Always half here. You flinch when people laugh too loud. You vanish for days. Rami thinks you're a secret agent."
Selene almost smiles. If only.
Jess taps her phone. "Anyway. Tonight. You're coming to the rooftop show with us. Then you're going to Evan's. Then—"
"Okay."
Jess stops mid-sentence. "Wait. Okay?"
Selene nods. "Promise."
Jess narrows her eyes. "You suck at promises."
"Trying to get better," Selene lies. Again.
---
Saturday Night
She doesn't get better.
At nine-thirty, she's halfway through putting on mascara in the cracked mirror above her bathroom sink. Her phone buzzes.
Micah.
WRAITH: Warehouse. 19th. Flock moving crates. Looks like guns or bodies. Your favorite.
She should text Evan: Rain check. I'm sorry.
She doesn't. She kills the lights, slides the feather blades into her boots, zips the cloak into her pack.
---
Warehouse on 19th
It's always the rain. The rain hides her sins. The rain makes her wings look real.
Micah's voice hisses in her ear as she crouches on a fire escape above the warehouse. He's eating something crunchy. Of course he is.
> "Fun fact," he says, mouth full, "Did you know humans have the exact same amount of bones as a horse?"
She winces. "What the hell are you eating?"
"Cereal. Dry. Wanna guess what flavor?"
"Micah—"
"It's Raven Crunch. Limited edition. Very appropriate for tonight's theme—"
"Focus."
"I am focused. Focused on the fact that your boyfriend's probably crying into takeout right now while you're about to stab dudes in a warehouse. Romance is dead, Selene."
She ignores him. Below, men haul crates under flickering floodlights. One carries a shotgun like a casual handshake. Another drags a tarp — under it, feet. Bare. Lifeless.
One feather at a time.
---
She drops.
The cloak spreads behind her. A whisper of black shadow. She hits the ground in a puddle that eats the sound. One man turns — sees nothing but a shape in the dark. By the time he shouts, she's already moving.
Talon blades slice tendon and muscle. The second man raises the shotgun — she pivots, drives her elbow under his chin. Bone cracks. He drops like wet laundry.
Three more swarm her. One clips her ribs with a pipe. Pain blooms. She grits it down. She's faster now — learning how to dance inside pain's teeth.
---
Micah's voice:
> "You know, if you die tonight, can I have your Netflix password? Asking for a friend."
"Micah."
"No seriously, your recommendations are trash. I could do you a favor and fix—"
She slams a man into a stack of crates. The wood splinters. He doesn't get up.
---
One flees. She bolts after him — but he's quick, panicked. A fence rattles. Tires screech in the street beyond. Another lead — gone into the city's bloodstream.
Selene stands alone in the rain, knuckles bleeding through torn gloves.
> Micah sighs in her ear. "So… rooftop show's off, huh?"
She sinks to a knee, breathing hard. "Shut up."
"And Evan? He texted me, you know. Wants to know if you're alive. Should I send him a feather emoji or—?"
"Micah."
"Fine. Fine. Brood away, oh mighty Night Chicken."
She almost laughs. Almost.
---
Sunday Morning
Evan's door. She knocks. He opens. He looks at her like he's seeing a ghost.
> "I waited."
"I know."
"You didn't call."
She opens her mouth — no words come. Not ones that matter.
He lets her in anyway. She sits on his couch, fingers worrying a feather she pulled from her pocket — soaked in rain, caked in blood.
She's here. But the Raven never really leaves.
---
Somewhere in the city, Detective Ward pins fresh photos to his board. A blurry shot — black wings over broken men. The net tightens. The Flock sharpens its claws.
---
Selene Arlen lies in Evan's bed at dawn, eyes wide open while he sleeps beside her.
Somewhere deep in The Nest, Micah sips stale coffee and plots her next hunt.
In her chest, two hearts beat — one for him. One for the darkness.
--
END OF CHAPTER FOUR