Raven's POV
The camera flashes feel like gunshots.
Raven Blackwell stands frozen in the police press room, handcuffs biting into her wrists. In front of her, Marcus Chen—her fiancé, her partner, the man she was supposed to marry in three months—adjusts his tie and smiles at the cameras.
"Detective Blackwell tampered with evidence in at least fifteen cases," Marcus says, his voice steady and confident. "We have video footage, witness statements, and her own notes proving she falsified reports to boost her conviction rate."
Raven's legs shake. "Marcus, please—"
"Silence!" Lieutenant Harris barks. Behind Marcus, Raven's younger sister Scarlett stands with red-rimmed eyes, playing the heartbroken sibling perfectly. She dabs at fake tears.
"My sister... I can't believe she did this," Scarlett whispers to the microphones. "She was always so competitive, always needed to be the best. I guess she finally crossed the line."
The lie punches through Raven's chest. She wants to scream that this is a setup, that she found Marcus taking bribes two weeks ago, that she was about to report him. But her mouth won't work. The cameras keep flashing.
"Badge and gun, Detective Blackwell." Harris holds out his hand.
Raven's fingers tremble as she surrenders her badge—the one she earned with blood and sweat and six years of perfect service. The gold shield that meant everything. Harris takes it like it's garbage.
"You're done," Marcus says quietly, leaning close enough that only she can hear. "You should've minded your own business, Raven. Now you've lost everything."
His breath smells like Scarlett's perfume.
The room spins. Reporters shout questions. Cameras swarm. Raven turns and runs, crashing through the back exit into the alley behind the police station. She makes it three steps before her stomach revolts and she vomits against a dumpster.
"There she is! Get a shot!"
Photographers pour into the alley. Raven runs blindly, tears and snot streaming down her face. She runs until her lungs burn, until she's lost in downtown Chicago with no badge, no phone, and no future.
She collapses on a bench in Grant Park, shaking and empty.
Her phone buzzes—twenty-three missed calls from reporters, seven from her parents, one from Luna. She opens the text from her mother: How could you do this to our family? Don't come home.
Raven drops the phone and stares at the lake. She wonders how cold the water is. How long it would take to drown.
"Rough day?"
She jerks her head up. An old homeless man sits at the other end of the bench, watching her with knowing eyes.
"The worst," Raven whispers.
"Worst days teach you who you really are," he says. "And what you're willing to become."
Before she can respond, her phone rings. Unknown number. She almost ignores it, but something makes her answer.
"Detective Blackwell?" The voice is male, professional, unfamiliar.
"Not a detective anymore."
"That's actually why I'm calling. My name is Detective James Morrison. I trained you at the academy, though you probably don't remember me. I need to meet you. Tonight. It's about the Reaper case—and about proving your innocence."
Raven's heart stops. "What?"
"Lincoln Park, north bench, midnight. Come alone. And Raven?" His voice drops. "Don't trust anyone from your old precinct. This goes deeper than you think."
The call ends.
Raven stares at her phone, hope and suspicion warring in her chest. It could be a trap. Another way to destroy her. But Morrison's name sounds familiar—an old-timer who left the force years ago under mysterious circumstances.
And he mentioned the Reaper. The serial killer everyone's been hunting for four months. Eight bodies, all carved with the letter "R," all rich criminals who escaped justice.
Why would Morrison connect that to her?
She checks the time: 6:47 PM. Five hours until midnight.
Five hours to decide if she's desperate enough to trust a stranger.
Her phone buzzes again. A text from a blocked number: They're watching you. Don't go home. Don't go to friends. Trust Morrison. He's the only one who can save you now.
Raven's blood turns to ice. She spins around, scanning the park. Families having picnics. Joggers on the path. A man in a black suit standing perfectly still near the fountain, staring directly at her.
When she blinks, he's gone.
Her phone buzzes a third time. This text contains a single photo: Marcus and Scarlett in bed together, clearly taken weeks ago—before Raven's arrest. Below the image, one sentence:
Your sister has been sleeping with your fiancé for six months. That's not even the worst thing she's done. Come to Lincoln Park and learn the truth about who really destroyed your life.
Raven's hands shake so hard she almost drops the phone. Rage floods through her—hot and consuming and dangerous. Marcus and Scarlett. Six months. While she was planning a wedding and believing in love and justice and all the stupid things that turned her into a victim.
She stands, her decision made.
She'll go to Lincoln Park. She'll meet Morrison. And if this is a trap, if they're planning to kill her or arrest her again or finish destroying what's left of her life?
She doesn't care anymore.
The old Raven Blackwell—the one who followed rules and trusted the system—died in that press room. Whoever walks out of Lincoln Park tonight will be something different.
Something dangerous.
As the sun sets over Chicago, Raven walks toward the park bench where her old life will officially end.
She doesn't notice the black car following her three blocks behind.
Or the man inside it, watching her through tinted windows with steel-blue eyes.
Or the bloody knife wrapped in plastic on his passenger seat—still warm from his most recent kill.