The Chronicles of Raven 10.5:The Raven Protocol: Kimberly Anders' Investigation

Confidential Report – Narrative Reconstructed from Detective Kimberly Anders’ Files**part 1

**Prologue: My Dominion**

I am Raven, the shadow that bends Crescent City to my will. October 2025, and my loft above this modern satanic church is my sanctuary—obsidian walls gleaming under crimson stained glass, the air heavy with myrrh and musk. I recline on a velvet chaise, my shoulder-length black hair tipped in dark violet, emerald green eyes alight with hunger. My glossy plum lips curve into a wicked smile, a raven tattoo pulsing above my cleavage, thigh-high latex stiletto boots catching the candlelight. An absinthe glass chills my fingers, its bitter burn a lover’s kiss. The city’s neon pulses below, my anthem, as I weave my next corruption.

A shadow stirs, a cloaked figure, its form a void, no face, only presence. “Raven,” it whispers, voice slicing through the haze, “a rival rises. She is nameless to me, her purpose veiled, but she will clash with you. Her resolve is iron, her path inevitable.”

I laugh, low and cruel, my emerald eyes narrowing. “A rival? Let her come. This city is mine to mold.”

“She is unlike your conquests,” it warns, dissolving into sulfurous mist. “You will butt heads, and the outcome is uncertain.”

I rise, my black trench coat swirling, gazing over the neon-drenched skyline. “Let her try,” I purr, my smile sharp. “I’ll carve her soul into my tapestry.” The figure’s gone, its warning a faint echo. My heart races, hunger sharpened, candles flickering as I savor the chase.

---

**October 2025, Approaching Crescent City**

The bus hums along a rain-slicked highway, Crescent City’s neon glow a faint pulse on the horizon. I’m Detective Kimberly Anders, 30, my ash-blonde hair tied in a sleek bun, icy blue eyes catching my reflection in the window. My silver crescent pendant, its sapphire runes faintly glowing, rests against my chest, a shield crafted by my grandmother. Its hum is soft, a whisper of the darkness awaiting me in a city I’ve yet to tread, drawn by a case that carries my mother’s shadow.

Elmswood, California, was my cradle—a small town of eucalyptus groves and golden hills, their sharp scent mingling with my grandmother’s lemon verbena garden. Mom, Officer Laura Anders, was my beacon, her police badge glinting as she tucked me in, her hazel eyes warm. “Be fearless, Kim,” she’d say, her laugh a melody. But in 2005, when I was 10, a gang shootout on a routine patrol ended her life—a bullet through her chest, no mystery, just blood on asphalt. I found her badge on her dresser, cold and heavy, my father’s grief a silent prison. Grandmother held me in her cottage, her gray eyes fierce. “Laura’s gone, but her strength lives in you,” she said, lavender vases glowing in the sunlight.

At 13, I’d sit under eucalyptus trees, clutching Mom’s badge, vowing to carry her fight. By 16, I pored over her case files, pilfered from Dad’s attic, my heart set on justice. At 18, in 2013, Grandmother summoned me to her cottage, its wooden floors creaking, sunlight filtering through lace curtains. She pressed the crescent pendant into my palm, its sapphire runes warm. “I forged this after Laura’s death,” she said, her voice trembling. “The runes are ancient, woven for protection against the world that took her. She’d want you safe, especially as a cop.” Her worry was a weight—Mom’s death had broken her—but my resolve was steel.

In 2014, I entered the Sacramento Police Academy, the pendant warm against my chest. The training was brutal—dawn sprints, firearm drills, late-night criminology texts—but I thrived, Mom’s badge in my pocket. Classmates called me “Ice” for my focus, my icy blue eyes unyielding, but the pendant’s hum kept me grounded. I graduated at 19, top of my class, and took a detective post in San Francisco, chasing cases of missing persons and occult symbols, each a step toward Mom’s legacy.

Crescent City’s 2020 case is a graveyard of names: Sara Martin, Lara Martin, twin sisters; Alexis Harper, a photographer; Elizabeth Alexander, a musician. No bodies, no traces, only whispers of corruption. My pendant pulses as the bus slows, neon pinks and purples bleeding through the mist. I grip my suitcase, ready for the fight.

---

**Crescent City: Arrival**

The bus depot is a grimy shell, its fluorescents buzzing, the air thick with diesel and rain. I step off, my green blazer open over a white blouse, matching green pants crisp, low-heeled black pumps clicking on wet pavement. My pendant hums, a faint warning. I take a taxi to the Crescent Hotel, a faded art deco tower, its neon sign flickering. The lobby smells of stale cigarettes and jasmine, the clerk’s eyes dull as I check in. My room is sparse, beige walls peeling, a window framing the city’s pulse. I unpack my files, the 2020 names—Sara Martin, Lara Martin, Alexis Harper, Elizabeth Alexander—staring from grainy photos. My pendant glows softly, urging rest.

Morning dawns, gray and heavy. I dress in my finest: a tailored purple blazer, open over a white blouse, matching purple pants, my ash-blonde bun sleek, my pendant gleaming. The police department is a concrete block, its windows smudged, neon reflections glinting. I stride inside, my pumps echoing, and meet Chief Ellis at the desk. He’s grizzled, salt-and-pepper hair framing a weathered face, brown eyes sharp yet warm, cigar smoke clinging to his suit.

“Detective Anders,” he says, shaking my hand, his voice gravelly. “The graveyard case—Sara and Lara Martin, Alexis Harper, Elizabeth Alexander. It’s a beast.”

“Chief Ellis,” I nod, my pendant warm. “I’m here to slay it.”

He leads me to his office, its desk buried in files, neon pink filtering through blinds. “Those names are ghosts,” he says, tossing the 2020 file down. “No leads since ’20. You up for this?”

“My mother was a cop,” I say, my voice steady. “Shot dead when I was 10. I don’t quit.”

Ellis’s eyes soften. “Laura Anders. Heard of her. You’ve got her fire. Just don’t let this city burn you out.” He assigns me a team: Officers Marc Reyes, Derek Morris, Elena Torres, and Sarah Vega. “Reyes is steady, Morris is sharp, Torres is quick, Vega’s tough. They’re yours.”

I nod, my pendant humming. “I’ll start at the Vile Vixens Hangout. The Martin twins were last seen there.”

“Careful, Anders,” Ellis warns, his cigar glowing. “This city’s got claws.”

---

**Vile Vixens Hangout: The First Feathers**

The Vile Vixens Hangout, a decaying warehouse in the industrial district, looms under red and violet lights pulsing like a fever. I lead Marc Reyes, Derek Morris, Elena Torres, and Sarah Vega inside, my green blazer open, pendant humming against my blouse. Marc, broad-shouldered with cropped brown hair, sweeps his flashlight, his voice taut. “This place feels like a grave, Kim.”

“Graves hide secrets,” I say, my icy blue eyes scanning, pumps echoing on concrete etched with scorched sigils. Derek, wiry with short black hair and hazel eyes, adjusts his uniform, his tone sharp. “Smells like a ritual gone wrong.” Elena, petite with chestnut hair in a ponytail, mutters, “Incense and decay,” myrrh and musk thick. Sarah, athletic with freckled cheeks and warm brown eyes, grips her holster. “The Martin twins vanished here, right?”

“Yes,” I say, my fingers brushing a singed black feather, its purple tips shimmering. My pendant flares, a jolt of heat. Derek finds another, identical. “Two feathers,” I murmur, pocketing mine, Derek holding his. “Our lead.”

Marc scans the chains dangling from the ceiling. “I’ll check the back,” he says, his jaw set. Derek nods. “I’ll take the east side.” My pendant burns. “Stay in sight,” I snap, but Elena pulls me toward the exit. “They’re fine, Kim.”

We return to the police station, the precinct’s flickering fluorescents casting long shadows. I brief Ellis, his office heavy with cigar smoke. “Found feathers at the Hangout, sir,” I say, showing mine. “Tied to the Martin twins.”

Ellis nods, his eyes narrowing. “That place is poison, Anders. Keep your team tight.”

The next morning, Marc and Derek miss roll call. I face Ellis in his office, my stomach twisting. “Reyes and Morris didn’t show, sir,” I say, my voice steady.

Ellis leans forward, his face grim, cigar unlit. “Two men gone after one night? This isn’t coincidence, Kim. What’s in that warehouse?”

“Feathers, sir,” I say, my pendant warm. “They’re linked to the 2020 case. I’m going back tonight.”

He rubs his temples, his voice low. “You’re stirring a hornet’s nest, Anders. I trust you, but don’t lose more. Take Torres and Vega, and report back.”

I gather Elena and Sarah and return to the Vile Vixens Hangout at midnight, the air colder, the lights dimmer. Two women stand in the center, their beauty lethal, their presence electric. The first is tall and voluptuous, violet silk pants clinging to her lush curves, a black leather vest studded with silver, raven-black hair streaked purple cascading past her shoulders, sapphire eyes glinting with predatory allure. The second is leaner, her black latex catsuit gleaming like liquid night, silver hair flowing like moonlight, amethyst eyes glowing with dangerous hunger. My pendant sears my skin.

“Who are you?” I demand, my voice firm, Sarah’s hand on her holster.

The first woman steps closer, her curves swaying hypnotically, her sapphire eyes locking onto mine. “Call me Malice, Detective,” she purrs, her voice a velvet caress. She turns to the second woman, pulling her close, their lips meeting in a slow, sensual kiss, bodies pressed together, the air charged with allure. They part, gazing at me with wicked smiles. “You’ll join us soon,” Malice says, her tone dripping with promise. They kiss again, deeper, their hands entwined, a provocative dance that stirs the shadows.

The second woman’s voice is a sultry hiss, her latex gleaming as she moves with lethal grace. “I’m Vice, Detective,” she says, her amethyst eyes gleaming. “You’ll join us soon.” They kiss once more, their lips lingering, a seductive performance that leaves my heart racing. They glide back, vanishing into the shadows, their laughter echoing like a siren’s call.

“What was that?” Elena whispers, her eyes wide.

“Trouble,” I say, my pendant glowing, my breath uneven. “They’re tied to the 2020 case.”

**Corruption at the Vile Vixens Hangout**

Unbeknownst to me, Marc Reyes returned to the Vile Vixens Hangout that night, the feather’s pulse a siren’s call. Sara Vile, transformed from Sara Martin and now a Vile Vixen, awaited, her inky black hair wet and gleaming, icy blue eyes glowing, leather top clinging to her voluptuous curves. “You felt it, Marc,” she purred, circling him like a panther, her voice a hypnotic melody. “The feather’s power. It’s freedom, pleasure, love unbound.”

Marc’s flashlight trembled, his brown eyes wide. “Who are you? What’s this about?”

“Sara Vile,” she whispered, her fingers brushing his chest, the feather in her hand glowing violet. “You’re chained by duty, Marc. I offer desire, a sisterhood of passion. Will you say yes?” Her eyes locked onto his, her curves swaying seductively.

“Yes,” Marc breathed, his voice trembling with anticipation. Sara smiled, drawing him to a velvet-draped alcove, the air heavy with myrrh. Her lips met his in a slow, passionate kiss, her hands unbuttoning his shirt, sliding it off his shoulders, then peeling away his pants, her fingers tracing his bare skin with deliberate care. Their bodies entwined on a velvet floor, her kisses deepening, a dance of whispered promises awakening new desires. As Marc surrendered, the feather’s heat surged, his cropped hair darkening to raven-black, streaked violet, cascading past his shoulders. His frame softened, hips curving, breasts forming, uniform melting into a black leather vest studded with silver, violet silk pants clinging to her new form. Her brown eyes turned sapphire, her voice a sultry purr.

Malice emerged, a sexy, dangerous lesbian woman, her heart bound to Sara’s will. Sara pulled her close, their lips meeting in a tender, playful kiss, hands roaming with newfound intimacy. “Welcome, my love,” Sara whispered, her fingers trailing Malice’s curves, their bodies swaying in a cute, sensual embrace, giggles mingling with soft moans. Malice’s sapphire eyes sparkled, her desires reshaped to crave the sisterhood, her laughter a sweet echo of Sara’s.

Derek Morris returned later, the feather’s hum pulling him back. Lara Vile, transformed from Lara Martin, stood waiting, her inky black hair shimmering, icy blue eyes piercing, leather top accentuating her lithe curves. “You’re curious, Derek,” she said, her voice a seductive duet, stepping closer, her movements fluid. “The feather’s truth. It’s love, unbound. Will you say yes?”

Derek gripped his holster, hazel eyes narrowing. “Who are you? What’s this about?”

“Lara Vile,” she said, her smile wicked, holding the feather aloft, its glow pulsing. “No games, Derek. I offer passion, a sisterhood eternal.” Her gaze was a promise, her presence intoxicating.

“Yes,” Derek murmured, his resistance melting. Lara led him to a shadowed corner, the air thick with musk. Her kiss was fierce, her hands unbuttoning his uniform, sliding it off, then removing his pants, her fingers grazing his skin with fiery intent. Their bodies melded in a heated embrace on silk cushions, her lips trailing his neck, igniting his senses. As Derek surrendered, the feather’s heat seared, his black hair lengthening into silver waves, frame reshaping into sleek, feminine curves, uniform dissolving into a black latex catsuit. Her hazel eyes became amethyst, her voice a sultry hiss.

Vice emerged, a sexy, dangerous lesbian woman, her gaze predatory. Lara drew her into a playful, sensual embrace, their lips meeting in a soft, lingering kiss, hands exploring with teasing touches. “My darling,” Lara purred, her fingers tracing Vice’s latex-clad curves, their bodies swaying in a cute, intimate dance, laughter blending with whispered affection. Vice’s amethyst eyes gleamed, her heart sworn to Lara’s empire of love.

---

**The Gallery: The Second Feather**

We return to the police station, the precinct’s stale coffee and buzzing fluorescents grounding us. I brief Ellis, showing the feathers. “The Hangout’s a hub for something dark, sir,” I say. “The Martin twins are key.”

Ellis nods, his cigar unlit. “You’re onto something, Anders. But that place eats people. Keep your eyes open.”

The shuttered gallery is a seductive maze, its smooth white walls lined with erotic art that pulses with unnatural life. I enter with Elena and Sarah, my blue blazer open, pendant humming. The gallery is tied to Alexis Harper, last seen in 2020. “This place feels alive,” Elena says, her chestnut ponytail swaying, her brown eyes darting.

“Stay sharp,” I say, my pumps clicking. Sarah scans the shadows, her freckled face tense. “Harper’s photos were here, right?”

“Yes,” I say, finding a DSLR camera on a pedestal, its lens glinting, beside a singed feather, purple-tipped. My pendant throbs as I pocket it. “We’re done.”

“I’ll check the back,” Elena says, her brown eyes resolute. My pendant flares. “Not alone,” I snap, grabbing her arm. She nods, but her gaze lingers on the camera.

We return to the police station, the precinct’s halls quiet. I report to Ellis, my pendant warm. “Found a feather at the gallery, sir. It’s tied to Harper.”

Ellis leans back, his eyes narrowing. “Another feather? This is getting strange, Anders. Watch your team closely.”

Elena misses roll call the next morning. I face Ellis in his office, my heart heavy. “Torres didn’t show, sir,” I say, my voice steady.

Ellis slams his fist on the desk, his cigar smoldering. “Damn it, Kim. First Reyes and Morris, now Torres? What’s out there?”

“Something’s taking them, sir,” I say, the feather in my hand. “I’m going back to the gallery tonight.”

He stands, his voice firm. “You’re walking into a storm, Anders. I’m behind you, but you need answers. Take Vega and get Ryan Lee—he’s steady.”

I gather Sarah and Ryan Lee, lean with dark stubble and sharp green eyes, and return to the gallery at dusk, the air heavier, myrrh choking the space. A woman stands under a spotlight, her beauty a weapon, platinum blonde hair with pink streaks shimmering, violet eyes glowing with dangerous allure, a glittering silver mini-dress clinging to her voluptuous curves, a camera necklace pulsing. My pendant burns.

“Who are you?” I ask, my voice tight, Sarah’s hand on her holster.

She tilts her head, her smile cold, her movements dripping with sensuality. “Paparazzi, Detective,” she purrs, her fingers brushing the camera, her violet eyes predatory. “You’ll join us soon.” Her voice is a siren’s call, her presence electric. She raises her camera, its flash blinding, and vanishes into the shadows.

Sarah’s eyes widen. “Kim, this is bad.”

“Worse,” I say, my pendant glowing. “She’s connected to the 2020 case.”

**Corruption at the Gallery**

Unbeknownst to me, Elena Torres returned to the gallery that night, the feather’s glow a relentless pull. Exposé Allure awaited, her emerald green hair wild, violet eyes glowing, black lace corset hugging her seductive curves. “You’re drawn to beauty, Elena,” she said, her voice a velvet whisper, raising her DSLR camera, its lens pulsing. “This lens sees your truth. Will you say yes?”

Elena’s brown eyes widened, her hand trembling. “Who are you? What’s that thing?”

“Exposé Allure,” she said, stepping closer, her smile seductive, her movements fluid. “It’s love, Elena, pure and free.” Her gaze was intoxicating, her presence a promise.

“Yes,” Elena whispered, her voice soft with longing. Exposé Allure guided her to a curtained alcove, the air thick with myrrh. Her kiss was slow and passionate, her hands unbuttoning Elena’s uniform, sliding it off her shoulders, then removing her pants, her fingers tracing Elena’s bare skin with tender care. Their bodies entwined on a velvet chaise in a dance of whispered desire, her lips grazing Elena’s ear, awakening new passions. As Elena surrendered, the camera’s heat surged, her chestnut hair bleaching to platinum blonde, pink streaks shimmering, her brown eyes turning violet, her uniform dissolving into a glittering silver mini-dress that clung to her new curves, a camera necklace branding her. Paparazzi emerged, a sexy, dangerous lesbian woman, her laughter cold, her gaze predatory, her desires bound to Exposé Allure’s sisterhood.

---

**The Rooftop: The Third Feather**

We return to the police station, the precinct’s fluorescents flickering. I brief Ellis, showing the gallery feather. “The gallery’s another piece, sir. It’s tied to Harper.”

Ellis rubs his cigar, his eyes weary. “You’re pulling threads, Kim, but they’re unraveling your team. Stay sharp.”

The rooftop is a desolate stage, melted speakers and scattered instruments glinting under a starless sky, neon purples pulsing. I stand with Sarah and Ryan, my purple blazer open, pendant humming. “This feels like a trap,” Sarah says, her brown eyes tight, sandalwood heavy in the air.

“It’s a lead,” I say, my pumps clicking. Ryan scans the shadows, his green eyes sharp. “Alexander was here, right?”

“Yes,” I say, finding a singed feather, silver-tipped, its energy making my pendant flare. “We’re out.”

“I’ll check the far side,” Sarah says, her freckled face resolute. My pendant sears. “Stay with me,” I order, grabbing her wrist. She nods, but her gaze drifts to the shadows.

We return to the police station, the precinct’s halls cold. I report to Ellis, my pendant glowing. “Found a feather on the rooftop, sir. It’s tied to Alexander.”

Ellis nods, his voice low. “Another site, another feather. You’re close, Kim, but this is dangerous ground.”

Sarah misses roll call. I face Ellis in his office, my heart pounding. “Vega’s gone, sir,” I say, my voice breaking.

Ellis stands, his face etched with worry, cigar clenched. “Four officers, Kim. Four. This isn’t just a case—it’s a massacre. What’s out there?”

“Something unnatural,” I say, the feather in my hand. “I’m going back to the rooftop tonight.”

He grips my shoulder, his eyes fierce. “You’re my best, Anders, but you’re walking into hell. Ryan’s with you, and I’m here. Find this thing, but don’t become another ghost.”

I gather Ryan and return to the rooftop at midnight, the air thick with sandalwood and a haunting melody. A woman stands in the center, her beauty mesmerizing, silver hair shimmering, azure eyes glowing with serene danger, a sapphire gown embroidered with silver notes flowing around her lithe curves. My pendant blazes.

“Who are you?” I demand, tears stinging, Ryan’s jaw clenched.

She turns, her voice a song, her movements graceful and deadly. “Melody, Detective,” she sings, her azure eyes hypnotic, her gown catching the neon glow. “You’ll join us soon.” Her words are a lullaby, her sensuality a trap. She steps back, her gown trailing, and vanishes into the night.

Ryan pulls me away, his voice low. “Kim, we’re outmatched.”

“Not yet,” I say, my pendant glowing. “She’s tied to the 2020 case.”

**Corruption at the Rooftop**

Unbeknownst to me, Sarah Vega returned to the rooftop that night, the feather’s hum a relentless pull. Serafina stood there, her deep blue hair flowing, piercing blue eyes hypnotic, dark blue gown shimmering with star-like details. “You hear it, Sarah,” she said, her voice a melody, her cursed flute glowing in her hands. “The song of eternity. Will you say yes?”

Sarah’s brown eyes widened, her hand on her holster. “Who are you? What’s that music?”

“Serafina,” she said, raising the flute, its notes weaving a spell, her curves swaying softly. “This is love, Sarah, harmony unbound.” Her gaze was a promise, her presence enchanting.

“Yes,” Sarah murmured, her voice trembling with desire. Serafina led her to a starlit corner, the air heavy with sandalwood. Her kiss was tender and passionate, her hands unbuttoning Sarah’s sweater, sliding it off, then removing her pants, her fingers grazing Sarah’s bare skin with gentle reverence. Their bodies entwined on a silk-draped platform in a dance of whispered songs, her lips brushing Sarah’s, awakening a new passion. As Sarah surrendered, the flute’s glow surged, her red sweater fading, silver hair cascading, her frame reshaping into graceful curves draped in a sapphire gown embroidered with silver notes. Her brown eyes turned azure, her voice a haunting song. Melody emerged, a sexy, dangerous lesbian woman, her every note a tribute to Serafina’s sisterhood.

---

**The Pattern**

At my desk, head bowed, feathers and files spread out, I trace the pattern. The 2020 missing—Sara Martin, Lara Martin, Alexis Harper, Elizabeth Alexander—are more than victims. They’re transformed, their shadows cast by the women I’ve met:

- **Malice and Vice**, raven-black and silver-haired, sapphire and amethyst-eyed, their voluptuous and sleek forms emerging in the Vile Vixens Hangout, their taunts tied to the 2020 case.

- **Paparazzi**, platinum blonde with violet eyes, her silver mini-dress gleaming in the gallery, her camera a relic of the 2020 case.

- **Melody**, silver-haired with azure eyes, her sapphire gown a hymn on the rooftop, her song echoing the 2020 case.

Each feather marks a site, each woman a thread in a network. A woman, her identity unknown, is the heart of this corruption, her church—a spire of obsidian and crimson glass—the epicenter. My pendant blazes, its runes a mirror to Mom’s courage.

I revisit the sites, the Hangout’s chains whispering, the gallery’s art pulsing, the rooftop’s melody lingering. The women’s taunts—“You’ll join us soon”—burn in my mind, their seductive danger a weapon. Ryan stays close, his green eyes steady. “We’ll find her, Kim,” he says, his hand on my shoulder. I nod, but fear gnaws at me. Who is she?

A report crosses my desk: a woman near the church, silver hair shimmering, amethyst eyes glinting, her black latex dress hypnotic. Witnesses call her Becca, her presence twisting minds, leaving a silver-tipped feather. My pendant flares, my heart racing. Another of her creations.

---

**The Crossing**

I walk a neon-lit street, four feathers in my pocket, the air humid and silent. My purple blazer hangs open, my pendant glowing faintly, its sapphire runes warm. The city pulses with secrets, its skyscrapers clawing at the starless sky, neon pinks and purples bleeding into the mist. My pumps click on wet pavement, each step a vow: for Mom, for the Martin twins, for Harper, for Alexander.

A woman approaches from the opposite direction, her silhouette sharp against the neon haze. She’s tall, graceful, wrapped in a black trench coat that swirls like smoke. Her shoulder-length hair, black with violet tips, catches the light, her emerald eyes scanning the sidewalk, a phone pressed to her ear. Her voice is low, a sultry purr I can’t decipher, her glossy plum lips curling into a faint smile. A raven tattoo pulses above her cleavage, her thigh-high latex boots gleaming. The air thickens with myrrh and musk, her presence a blade against my skin.

My pendant pulses—once, bright, urgent. I freeze, my breath catching, my fingers tightening around the feathers. She passes me, her scent lingering, her eyes never meeting mine. Neither of us pauses, neither aware of the other’s truth. I turn, my heart racing, but she’s fading into the neon shadows, her silhouette swallowed by the city’s pulse. My pendant dims, its warning faint.

She doesn’t look back. Neither do I.

I don’t know who she is. Not yet.

---

**Epilogue: My Ascent**

I am Raven, and Crescent City is my canvas. The woman I passed on the street is nothing to me, just another soul in the neon haze, unaware of the web I weave. My shoulder-length hair, black with violet tips, catches the neon glow as I stride into a shadowed alley, my black trench coat swirling, phone pressed to my ear. “Very good, Serafina,” I purr, my glossy plum lips curling into a wicked smile. “Keep me informed.”

The air thickens with myrrh and musk, my emerald eyes flaring like twin flames in the darkness. I step deeper into the shadows, my back arching as vast, obsidian wings unfurl from beneath my coat, their violet-tipped feathers shimmering. They beat once, twice, a gust scattering debris as I launch into the starless sky. My laughter, low and cruel, caConfidential Report – Narrative Reconstructed from Detective Kimberly Anders’ Files**part 1