Poison, maybe. Or something worse.
I glance at Pain, who just flew into the room.
“This is where you had to drag me so fast?” I ask, wincing. I’d take an old woman dying in a hospital any day over this. Hell, I’d even take a homeless man dying from heat stroke or a car crash.
This? This is just macabre.
Pain blinks, unimpressed.
I step closer, taking a better look at the man on the table. His eyes are wide open, filled with terror. He can’t see me—or Pain, of course. Only my crows are visible to humans, and they only show up when I stay in one place too long.
But he knows. He knows he’s about to die.
Anyone would.
It’s obvious. There are no open wounds on him, but his skin is ashen, his lips cracked like he’s been sucked dry. His pupils are blown wide, fingers twitching like he’s trying to grasp something that isn’t there. His breath rattles, strained and labored.
He’s suffering.
Badly.
“How the hell did you lose that much blood, man?” I mutter, even though he can’t hear me.
I take another step forward, slowly circling the table, starting at his feet. His clothes are expensive—shiny black shoes, a tailored shirt unbuttoned at the collar, a glimpse of a gold chain resting against his sunken chest. His slacks are dark and crisp, held up by a sturdy-looking belt still fastened around his hips.
Not a single drop of blood on him. In a basement drenched in it—blood smeared across the walls, pooling on the floor, splattered everywhere you look—he’s somehow spotless.
It’s only when I reach his middle that I notice something peeking out from beneath his sleeve. Right at his wrist—a cut.
Not just any random wound. Not the kind you get by accident. This one was precise. Surgical. A thin, deliberate slit running parallel to the veins beneath his skin.
Someone did this to him, knowing exactly where to cut. Exactly how deep to go.
I stare at it for a long moment. Then, slowly, my gaze shifts to the syringe lying beside him.
And just like that, with nothing else to do, I start playing detective.
The realization hits me, like puzzle pieces snapping into place. Whoever did this didn’t kill him with the blade. They drained him.
The blood in this room—this thick, clotted mess coating everything, hanging in the air like a part of the atmosphere—I had assumed it was the result of something brutal, something savage.
But now I see it for what it really was.
Systematic. Intentional.
This wasn’t chaos. It wascalculated.
Someone was careful.
And judging by the state of this man’s body, they didn’t stop until there was nothing left to take.
Pain flutters closer, its wings rustling in the silence.
“Well, shit,” I mutter, exhaling. “Times like this, you almost wish you were a pigeon, huh?”
It doesn’t answer.
“Yeah. Me too.”
