Legend speaks of a man with crows in his hair and stitches in his lips who will teach you his greatest trades. Some call him a monster. Most call him the Needle-Mouthed Man. But only the shadows know his true name, and they call him Master.
As one...
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A lone crow screams at the window.
Shadows stretch their twisting limbs across the pebbled road ahead, contorted into something far worse than dust and tar. The taxi cruises through the night at the speed of light, trees and buildings blurring into a violet haze, but the crow remains, clawed feet still somehow scrabbling at the glass as the world around them swirls into a fog of blank cityscapes and midnight dreams. Desperate shrieks escape its shining beak every now and then, like a child wailing for a mother that will never return. It studies him with dull eyes blacker than coal, and Minseo wonders if it is as dead as he is.
From the back, he catches the casual flick of Charon's ivory wrist, the sharp turn of the wheel. Minseo braces himself, hardly flinching as the cab careens onto a narrow dirt trail barely illuminated by the weak glow of eggshell headlights.
The crow is not so lucky. The trees above them have gnarled, wicked branches that would gladly embrace the life out of any creature in sight, and as Minseo watches silently, a low-hanging limb snags the bird's ebony plumage and sweeps it into the wind. A scatter of shiny black feathers drift past the window, and if Minseo peers closer, he can make out the scarlet spray of blood on the smooth glass, stark against the unforgiving night.
"Shame," Charon muses, the word reverberating through his fleshless jaw and sinking deep into Minseo's bones like a knife, piercing his organs until his rotting heart bleeds vermillion over the upholstery. "I've always liked crows."
Questions are dangerous in Volstka, where dreams come to die. But Minseo is far more deadly than any question could ever be, so he asks, "Why?"
When Charon speaks again, Minseo can almost taste the grin in his voice. "They talk less than you lot."
Scowling, Minseo drives his bare foot into the back of Charon's seat, the chuckle that follows making his blood boil. He glances down at his toes, pale as the driven snow, and wonders what it'll be like to finally wear shoes again. He hasn't worn them since he'd been taken to the whorehouse. He hasn't worn much at all.
His fingers drift to the shreds of his shorts, hanging off his thin thighs in wispy black scraps. He remembers how the man above him had yanked his pants to his knees, cruel nails ripping them to pieces just like he'd ripped Minseo's dignity away from him. You're nothing but a pathetic whore, he'd rasped, breath whisky-tainted and glee-eroded in Minseo's ear. Should have known better than to get involved.
"Perhaps it's for the best that the trees took the crow," Charon remarks, making Minseo's head jerk up.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Minseo snaps.
"If they hadn't, you would have killed it yourself."
Minseo bites his tongue until copper explodes through his mouth, running into the gaps between his teeth and lacing every canine with the salty tang of liquid mercury. He wants to snarl at the driver and deny it until the sun comes up, but he knows Charon's words hold more truth than he prefers. The shadows tug at every inch of Minseo's body, nipping his fingertips and yanking his hair. They laugh like the devil, coaxing him to surrender himself to them. You could have broken its neck, they whisper, licking their lips at the imprint of the bloodstain across the window. And you would have, you weak little thing.
