The city slept under a bruised sky, its alleys empty except for the rustle of paper scraps and the drip of distant gutters. From the rooftops, the world looked fragile, stitched together by lantern glow and broken tiles.

Arkha stood on the ridge of a slanted roof, jacket heavy on his shoulders, the night wind tugging at his hair. His real eyes scanned the horizon, but the tattoo on the back of his head blinked open, restless, shifting left and right as if it had a will of its own. Below, the faint scuttle of something unnatural echoed—Trash Beasts prowling where civilians couldn’t hear them. Arkha didn’t move. He watched, listened, calculating. His posture was loose, casual even, but the tension beneath was coiled steel. A crow landed on the beam nearby, feathers gleaming black in the moonlight. It cawed once, low and rasping. The corner of Arkha’s mouth curved faintly.

“Mm. You feel it too.”

The tattoo-eye swiveled, locking on a shadow far down the street—a flicker too jagged, too wrong to belong to a human. He didn’t call for backup. He didn’t shift his stance.

Instead, he whispered, voice smooth and almost amused:

“Let’s see what fate drops tonight.”

The shadow lunged into view, claws scraping stone. Arkha stepped forward slowly, the crow spreading its wings as though mirroring him. For a heartbeat, silence ruled—man, bird, and beast poised in the glow of the half-moon.

Then Arkha moved, cloak unfurling like black wings of his own, the rooftop shuddering under his weight as the midnight hunt began.

(I like to imagine him having crows around that carries messages or just gives him information! Lol.)