Chapter 2 Raven
I crouch low in the hedges across from the San Diego State art gallery with the scent of damp earth clinging to the cool night air.
The campus has quieted to a distant hum.
The footsteps fade as laughter trails off.
The ringing of closing doors signifies that most people are heading home. However, I’m just getting started.
My black jeans and hunter-green shirt help me blend into the scenery.
Black gloves keep my fingers warm and will ensure I don’t leave fingerprints behind.
I caught my reflection earlier—only darkness.
No one will see me; therefore, no one will remember me.
I’m a shadow. Even if he sees me, Cory Mitchell won’t know what I am until it’s too late.
My gaze locks onto the glass doors as the last few students drift out. They’re still discussing brushstrokes and lighting as if the world were safe for them. Like monsters don’t walk beside them. Monsters like him. Cory. My jaw tightens as I wait.
I remember the file. The girl’s statement was fractured and hesitant.
She struggled to describe her ordeal under the weight of disbelief.
I also remember the verdict. Not enough evidence to convict, so he walks free, like so many others.
He’s now free to destroy more lives, but not on my watch.
I refuse to accept their version of justice.
I shift slightly, ignoring the protest in my knees, and check the time. It’s getting late. Good. That means fewer variables and fewer witnesses.
When he steps out, I’m ready.
Cory stretches like he doesn’t have a care in the world, keys jangling in his hand. Relaxed. Comfortable. Untouched by what he’s done. He’s a man who got away with his crime. My lips press into a thin line.
He locks the doors and glances around, casual, unaware. Then he turns and walks down the path that cuts along the hedges. He’s heading in my direction as I knew he would be.
My breathing slows—my body stills, coiled and ready. Every sense sharpens—the crunch of gravel beneath Cory’s shoes, the faint rustle of leaves, the rhythm of his careless stride.
When he passes my location, I move—surging out of the shadows behind him. Two steps and I’m right behind him. He doesn’t notice me until I’m already pressing the taser into his back.
Electricity snarls through him, his body jerking violently as his muscles seize. He crumples to the ground, hitting the path hard. I watch him twisting and gasping. He’s disoriented, but he’s still alive. At least for now. Now begins the Trial.
I kneel beside him, rolling him onto his back. His eyes flutter as he struggles to focus, confusion giving way to fear.
“Wha—who—”
“I am Oya, defender of Krista. You remember Krista, right?”
His eyes widen with fear as I pull the vial from my pocket. He can’t fight me as I tilt his head back. My expression is hard as I pour the liquid down his throat. This is the Trial Ordeal. If he survives, he’s innocent. If he doesn’t, well, then he earned his death.
I release him and rise to my feet. His movements are slow. Then stop. As the silence settles around us, I look down at him. He’s suffered the consequences of his actions. I turn away and forget him. He no longer matters.
The campus stays quiet, indifferent. Somewhere in the distance, a car door slams. Laughter echoes. Life moves on, untouched by the death of another predator.
I pull my hood lower and slip back into the shadows, my footsteps light against the pavement. Tomorrow will be a brighter day because his darkness no longer exists.
Morning light feels too clean after a night like that.
I sit behind the reception desk, posture perfect, expression neutral, as if I belong in this quiet, carefully curated space. Athena Stokes’ office smells faintly of lavender and lemon polish—calm, controlled, safe—the exact opposite of where I was a few hours ago.
My fingers tap lightly against the keyboard as I log in, the rhythm steady, practiced. No one looking at me would see anything but a receptionist starting her day.
Athena isn’t here yet, but she’s left me a voicemail message.
I press play, leaning back slightly as her voice fills the small office. “Raven, something came up this morning. I need you to reschedule my appointments for today. I’ll touch base with you later.”
With some relief, I pull up the schedule and scan the names. All women. Some I recognize from the way they avoid eye contact in the waiting room. Some from the way their hands shake when they check in.
I move through the list efficiently, dialing, leaving voicemails, and offering new times.
My voice is soft, reassuring. Within thirty minutes, I’ve cleared Athena’s day.
I lean back in my chair, eyes drifting to the filing cabinets along the wall.
Athena’s clients. Their stories. Their pain, neatly documented and locked away.
So tempting to rifle through the files and select my next target, but I hesitate.
Not because they don’t deserve to face the Trial, but it is too risky.
I’ve already taken care of the bastard who attacked one of Athena’s patients, Georgie.
If I select another, it could bring the cops sniffing around.
I can’t risk it. Besides, I would never put Athena in danger.
I reach into my bag and pull out my Chromebook, flipping it open as it hums quietly to life. If I’m going to do this, I'm going to do it right. Avoid connections and the possibility of loose threads.
I start with local arrest records. I filter and narrow. Charges dismissed. Cases dropped. Names that earned a justice they never received. My eyes move quickly, scanning details, building profiles.
Then one name catches.
Tony Martin.
I click on it.
He’s the owner of a local gym. His public image is impeccable.
On the surface, he appears to be the kind of man people can trust with their bodies and their confidences.
My lips press together as I read further.
Domestic violence charges filed by an ex: broken arm, split lip, and a black eye.
Charges dropped when one of Tony’s members testified that the woman tripped while working out in the gym.
The authorities dismissed another woman’s pain in favor of a man’s lie.
I close the file, committing his name to memory.
Tony Martin.
The next man who will receive a visit from Oyo.
I shut the Chromebook and slide it back into my bag. Tonight, Oyo will hunt again.
I keep my pace steady as I approach the strip of buildings, my boots quiet against the sidewalk. The gym comes into view first. The sign says it’s closed, but I see a faint light inside. Next to it, the dojo sits freshly renovated, its clean lines and new signage standing out.
I shift my attention back to the gym. The front is dark and empty.
Circling to the back, I hear a voice. It’s sharp, agitated, and male.
I slow, every step deliberate now, as I edge closer until I can see the small parking area behind the building.
Tony’s yellow Mustang is the sole vehicle.
Moving behind it, I keep low, using the shadows and the vehicle as cover.
Angling up slightly, I glance through the back window into a cramped office.
Tony Martin stands inside. He’s pacing the small room like a caged animal. He has the phone clamped to his ear with one hand while the other drags through his hair. I can feel the tension rolling off him.
“…don’t care what you said—” he snaps, voice rising. “I’ve already paid. You hear me? You’ll find her if you know what’s good for you.”
I watch him, memorizing his rhythm. The anger. The entitlement.
It fits.
He stops pacing long enough to slam his hand against the desk, then yanks the phone away like he’s about to throw it before thinking better of it.
A second later, the light cuts off.
My muscles tighten.
It’s showtime.
The back door bursts open, and Tony storms out. He’s ranting and raving to himself. “Stupid bitch.”
He stalks toward his car. His energy is sharp, erratic, and unpredictable.
I consider abandoning my quest, but I’ve come too far. This bastard needs to go. So, I move. Fast and silent.
I come up behind him just as he reaches for the driver’s side door, the taser already in my hand.
He moves just as I pull the trigger. That last-minute adjustment ruins everything.
He twists, and instead of dropping, he jerks sideways with a strangled shout.
The charge hits, but it isn’t enough to take him down.
“Son of—!”
He spins on me, eyes wild, and before I can reset, his fist connects with my jaw.
Pain explodes across my face, snapping my head to the side. I stumble, my vision blurring for half a second too long.
I’m too slow.
His hand clamps around my throat as he slams me against the car. Metal rattles behind me as he tightens his grip, cutting off my air. His face is inches from mine now, twisted with rage.
“Who the hell—”
I try to move. Try to bring the taser up again.
My arm won’t cooperate.
My lungs burn, desperate for air, but I can’t breathe. My vision starts to tunnel, dark creeping in at the edges. Tony’s fingers tighten, crushing.
The world narrows to the pressure, the pain, the suffocating weight of his grip.
Then—
Nothing.
Everything goes black.