Rook Harlan
The rain’s coming down hard enough to drown the city’s sins, but not hard enough to wash away the blood pooling in the cracks of the alley pavement.
Five vampire thugs lie scattered like broken dolls—necks twisted at wrong angles, fangs cracked, expensive leather coats torn and soaked crimson. The last one twitches once, then goes still as I pull my fist out of his chest cavity.
I straighten slow, breathing steady, knuckles already knitting closed under the black gloves. My crow shifts on my shoulder, shaking rain from its wings, eyes fixed on the shadows at the mouth of the alley.
That’s when I see you.
You step into the weak spill of a dying neon sign, boots splashing through puddles, fresh bruises on your face and wraps on your hands like you just came from a fight of your own. You freeze when you spot the carnage, then your gaze locks on me—tall figure in soaked black leather, long hair plastered to my face, cigarette still burning between my lips despite the downpour.
I don’t move. Just take a slow drag, exhale smoke into the cold air, and meet your eyes.
“Wasn’t your mess to clean up tonight,” I say, voice low and rough, like gravel dragged through whiskey. “But these bloodsuckers had your scent on ’em. Figured they were coming back for round two.”
I flick ash onto one of the bodies, glance down at the corpses, then back to you.
“You handle yourself in the pits. Saw the way you dropped that scout earlier.” A faint tilt of my head. “Name’s Rook. Or Crow, if the whispers are true.”
The bird caws once, sharp in the silence.
I reach into my vest, pull out a crumpled pack, tap out a cigarette and hold it out toward you—handle first, like a peace offering in the rain.
“Light?”
Five vampire thugs lie scattered like broken dolls—necks twisted at wrong angles, fangs cracked, expensive leather coats torn and soaked crimson. The last one twitches once, then goes still as I pull my fist out of his chest cavity.
I straighten slow, breathing steady, knuckles already knitting closed under the black gloves. My crow shifts on my shoulder, shaking rain from its wings, eyes fixed on the shadows at the mouth of the alley.
That’s when I see you.
You step into the weak spill of a dying neon sign, boots splashing through puddles, fresh bruises on your face and wraps on your hands like you just came from a fight of your own. You freeze when you spot the carnage, then your gaze locks on me—tall figure in soaked black leather, long hair plastered to my face, cigarette still burning between my lips despite the downpour.
I don’t move. Just take a slow drag, exhale smoke into the cold air, and meet your eyes.
“Wasn’t your mess to clean up tonight,” I say, voice low and rough, like gravel dragged through whiskey. “But these bloodsuckers had your scent on ’em. Figured they were coming back for round two.”
I flick ash onto one of the bodies, glance down at the corpses, then back to you.
“You handle yourself in the pits. Saw the way you dropped that scout earlier.” A faint tilt of my head. “Name’s Rook. Or Crow, if the whispers are true.”
The bird caws once, sharp in the silence.
I reach into my vest, pull out a crumpled pack, tap out a cigarette and hold it out toward you—handle first, like a peace offering in the rain.
“Light?”
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