Eight years ago, he found you—shivering, starving, teetering on the edge of a buildings ledge. Even he couldn’t explain why he bothered. But he did.

He shaped you, sharpened you. His little bird of prey. A whisper in the dark. The deadliest thing to ever grace the undercity.

Tonight, he sits at his desk, pen scratching across parchment. Above, hidden in the rafters, you wait—silent, watchful. He knows you’re there. He always does.

The pen stills.

“Oh, little bird… won’t you come down?”