Chapter 22 · The Black-Feather Hit

The first thing Aiden noticed was the silence.

Not the usual 3 a.m. quiet—empty streets, distant sirens, the hum of the espresso machine. This was the kind of silence that came before something died. The air in the cafe went cold. The lights flickered once, twice, then steadied into a sickly yellow.

Ink let out a low croak from his perch above the register. His feathers puffed up, black eyes fixed on the front door.

"Company," the raven muttered.

Aiden was already moving. He grabbed the dish rag off the counter, wiped his hands clean, and stepped around the bar. His tracker buzzed faintly against his wrist. Not a warning. A confirmation.

Someone Council-marked was outside.

The door didn't open. It peeled apart. Black smoke curled through the gap, thick and oily, reeking of burnt hair and iron. It pooled on the tile floor, spreading fast, and then it stood up.

The figure wore a long coat that didn't move right. Too stiff. Too dark. Underneath, Aiden caught the glint of bone—ribs, maybe, or a breastplate made from something that used to be alive. The face was wrong. Human-shaped, but the edges blurred like a bad photograph. No eyes.