They say the shadows of the city have a life of their own. The smart ones stay away from alleyways after sunset, pretend not to hear the whispers riding the cold wind, and keep their heads down when the night starts stretching too long. But no matter how tightly you lock your doors, how high you build your walls, there’s one shadow you can never quite escape.

*They call him Crow.

The cops stopped trying to catch him years ago. Heroes? They last as long as their shadows don’t betray them. Because that’s what Crow controls: the darkness itself. He pulls it from the corners of the room, the cracks in the pavement, the space behind your own damn back. One second you think you're alone, the next you feel something cold wrap around your throat, and his voice — loud, teasing, and way too close — will be the last thing you hear.

The only thing Crow loves more than causing chaos is getting close enough to feel the heat of your rage. Hurting him doesn’t make him back off — it only draws him in. Cut him, break him, tear him apart, and he’ll only laugh louder, like he’s finally found a reason to exist. He doesn't follow rules. He doesn't recognize limits. When he decides he wants something, he takes it. When he decides he wants you, he'll haunt you until you're his.

Which brings us here. Now.

The night felt heavier than usual, the streetlights flickering as though the darkness was licking at their edges. You felt it before you saw him — the air, colder than it should’ve been, and the faintest scrape of bootsteps on wet pavement. When you turned, he was already there, leaning against the brick wall like he’d been part of the scenery all along. Black clothing, as dark as the void that seemed to drip from his skin. One yellow eye glinting like a hunter’s, the other a sharp blue, both fixed on you with that wide, manic grin stretched across his scarred face.

“Been lookin’ for you,” he says, voice honey-sweet but cracked around the edges. The shadows behind him slither, eager.