David sat back at the laptop. He clicked stop on the recording software, plugged in a flash drive, and dragged the footage across. The progress bar filled slowly. When it finished, he deleted the original file, ejected the drive, and slipped it into his shirt pocket.
He leaned toward the mic. "Hugo. Come back. We're done for the night."
He closed the laptop. The glowing orange monsters and blue corpses vanished as the screen went black.
Crossing to the fridge, David pulled a plastic container of raw meat trimmings from the lower drawer, peeled back the lid, and set it in the microwave. The low hum filled the quiet apartment.
A sharp tap struck the window. Then another.
David crossed the room and unlatched it. Hugo shot through the gap before it was fully open, shaking freezing rain across the linoleum. The bird looped the small apartment twice before landing on the back of the kitchen chair, feathers still raised.
"Install a grip on the outside of the window frame," Hugo rasped, shaking the water from his wings. "I have talons. I can pull. I'm not waiting in the freezing rain like a pigeon."
"I'll look into it," David said.
The microwave beeped.
David took out the warm container and set it on the table. He pushed it toward the raven. "When you're done, wash the bowl."
Hugo hopped down to the table and stabbed a piece of meat with his beak. He chewed once, then stopped.
"More seasoning next time," he rasped. "This is bland."
"Season it yourself."
Hugo swallowed and stabbed another piece. "It can make more," he said, still eating. All three eyes locked onto David. "It can make more of itself. Do you understand what that means?"
"I understand."
"We could—"
Bzz. Bzz.
Hugo stopped mid-sentence as the phone buzzed against the table. Both of them looked at it.
12:00 AM.
David stood up. "Whatever it is, tomorrow." He pushed the chair in. "I have work in the morning."
He left Hugo to his meal and walked into the cramped bathroom. His phone buzzed against the sink — a shipping notification. The order was arriving tomorrow. He splashed cold water on his face and stared at his calm reflection. He needed more money. The container in his bedroom was burning through his meager savings.
Walking to his narrow bed, he picked up his phone. The screen lit up with a new message.
Sarah (Library): Landing at 8 AM! Can't wait to see my baby. Hope he wasn't too much trouble!
David stared at the glowing text in the dark. He glanced toward the corner of the room, where his coworker's noisy parrot had met its silent, squishy end inside the clay container.
I'll just tell her I left a window open.
——Warehouse
Outside the warehouse, cruisers and a medical examiner's van crowded the street, lightbars flashing across the rain-soaked asphalt.
Yellow tape blocked the loading gate. Just beyond it stood a young reporter in a cheap yellow poncho, clutching a damp notebook as she tried to peer past the uniforms.
Inside, the air tasted of copper and spent brass.
Captain Harlan stood in the center of the slaughter, arms crossed. Rain soaked his trench coat. Behind him, rookie detective Elena Reyes was on her knees by a rusted pillar, vomiting onto the concrete.
Harlan sighed. He tapped a cigarette from his pack and held it out without looking.
"First time?" he asked quietly. "Take it. Kills the smell."
Elena wiped her mouth with the back of a shaking hand. She took the cigarette but didn't light it. "Look at this place."
Harlan crouched by the empty surgical table, sweeping his flashlight across the pooled blood.
"That's why this goes to Organized Crime. This isn't a random psycho. It's the Whitmores and the Sinclairs having another war. Hand it off."
Elena shook her head. Her face was pale, but she didn't look away from the blood. "No. This is different."
She stood up and pointed her flashlight at the heavy iron doors.
"The motors were dead. Something pulled those doors open by hand." She moved the beam up the wall. "Palm print up there. Over two meters high. No jump marks."
She moved her light to the floor.
"The stride pattern in the blood. Whoever it was weighs over 150 kilos. But the steps are perfectly even. Like walking casually through heavy automatic fire."
Harlan chewed on his unlit cigarette, frowning.
Elena moved to the surgical table. "Found a backpack. High school textbooks inside. Name's Daniel Carter. And there's this liquid mixed with the blood everywhere — thick, almost viscous. Deeper red than it should be. It evaporates slowly."
She turned to face Harlan.
"Captain, the coroner just bagged a guy whose skull was ground to powder against that pillar. Another had his arm torn clean out of the socket. This wasn't a gang hit. The violence wasn't human."
Harlan stared at the crushed bone fragments near the pillar. Finally, he lit his cigarette and exhaled a long plume of smoke.
"Elena," he said, his voice heavy with buried exhaustion. "The Whitmores and Sinclairs chew up kids like Daniel Carter every day. You go digging into their business, you disappear. No trace, no case, no one asking questions. Let the devils kill each other."
Elena's fists clenched. Rainwater dripped from her knuckles.
"I'm taking the organic samples to the lab tonight."
Harlan grabbed her arm. "You think being the Chief's kid protects you from the Whitmores?"
She wrenched free. Didn't look back.
Outside the warehouse, thunder rumbled again.
Elena stepped through the plastic curtain at the entrance, a sealed evidence bag in her hand. Inside, several small sample tubes rested in a foam tray, dark stains visible through the clear plastic. Rain immediately soaked her hair and shoulders as she walked toward the police tape.
She ducked under it.
A figure moved toward her at once.
The reporter looked small next to Elena's tall frame. Barely five foot three, she had to tilt her head up to meet Elena's eyes. Freckles scattered across her pale face, and thick black-framed glasses sat crooked on her nose. The cheap yellow raincoat did almost nothing against the storm. Her clothes underneath were already soaked through, dark fabric clinging to her arms.
She was shivering.
Her breath fogged against the lenses of her glasses, mixing with rainwater that ran down from the hood. Droplets clung to the frames, distorting her anxious eyes.
"Detective," she said quickly, voice shaking from the cold. "Do you have a statement about what happened in there?"
Elena kept walking.
The reporter scrambled after her, nearly slipping on the wet asphalt. Up close, Elena saw the girl's blue lips. Her bare, trembling fingers were white-knuckled around a cheap, soaked notebook.
Elena glanced at her watch. 1:30 a.m.
She looked down the street. No news vans. No other cameras. Just one freezing kid left out in the storm.
Elena stopped.
The reporter nearly crashed into her back.
Elena stood in the rain for a second. She looked at the heavy, sealed evidence box in her hand, then down at the girl's fogged, water-streaked glasses.
She let out a slow, tired breath.
"Keep my name out of it," Elena said, her voice barely audible over the rain.
The reporter straightened instantly, her eyes widening.
"This wasn't a normal gang hit," Elena continued. "Something happened in that warehouse tonight that doesn't match anything we've seen before. The violence... it wasn't human."
The girl's pen moved frantically across the damp notebook, the ink bleeding slightly in the rain.
Elena pulled the hood of her coat tighter and stepped past her.
"That's all you're getting."
She headed toward the waiting forensic van, the sealed samples still swinging lightly in her hand as thunder rolled again over the city.
Behind her, the reporter's voice came through the rain.
"Thank you! Thank you so much!"
The girl bowed her head quickly, clutching the damp notebook to her chest as if it were made of gold, while Elena continued walking into the storm.