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The crowd grew like a puddle of blood. They formed a cautious perimeter in the middle of the street - a wall that hid the scene from the world. Any gaps found were quickly filled by curious passersby. Quiet murmurs filled the air. Up above, crows circled, making periodic noises; they were a black cloud in an empty sky.
For all that gray coats and scarves blended in with the dismal backdrop of the city, the tangible excitement in the air made them stand out in sharp contrast. The shadows that normally creeped in the corners of buildings and the cynical attitudes of men finally emerged in full, nipping at the heels of the rabble.
It was on this Friday evening where Bruce Wayne could be found. He, too, had drifted over, tugged by a vague curiosity and the inexplicable event of crows flooding the street. They sank from the sky and formed a breadcrumb trail to the gathering, like Charon pointing the dead to the afterlife. The crows shied away as he moved forward, soft caws lighting up his path. Not yet wanting to commit to fray, he hung back. What awaits inside that would excite a street of sleepy city goers?
Gradually the crowd dispersed, leaving in ones-and-twos, whispering like they would become a suspect if anyone overheard. The only ones who stayed were those who kept their mouths closed and wore the taint of unwanted like a badge of honor. They were in the alleys of streets, sitting on the doorsteps of shops, clustered in families forgotten by the world.
By these people, Bruce could hide.
He could see the body from afar. It was a nauseating scene. He was mauled, seemingly having gone into a fight with a tiger and lost. Blood seeped from gashes along the side and the neck twisted unnaturally. That was why the crows were here. Like their cousins the vulture, they were also attracted to murder.
A surprise, a dagger, blood. It was the story the body told to any who cared to listen. Bruce could see the deft job that the murderer had done, could tell that the man had been taken off guard. He might not have even seen his killer before he died.
There were others like Bruce, scouting the body from a distance. There was a man, gray collar tilted up, eyes darting away whenever someone looked in his direction. There was an older woman, form concealed by layers of coats, dull scarves wrapped around her neck. She had a small bucket with meager amounts of money, but it seemed that the action of the night had discouraged her from begging to anyone else. Another, a child - whose gloves were torn at the fingertips, boots fraying at the seams - sat on the steps of a store. And in the darkest part of the alley, a woman. She was young, with shadows dripping off of her like oil. Her outfit stood in sharp contrast to the washed out stone - it was the most vibrant red. It hung off of her, beaded layers like diamonds, as if she were the most beautiful chandelier in the world.
The woman looked around once, eyes skipping the body. Her body language was muted, nonconfrontational until she caught Bruce’s gaze. Her eyes were dark, with a shade hung over them, something slightly off. For a second, everything stopped. She seemed almost familiar. They just took each other in. The next instant, the woman turned and fled into the deep recesses of her shadows.
To her own surprise, Bruce took off after without hesitation, doggedly tailing her past dumpsters, puddles, and animals. The woman in red led them out of the alley to a street rife with excitement.
This bustle in the air was new, a stark difference to the road one over. It was the cars, honking in the streets, populating it just as much as the sidewalks were crammed with people. The traffic was standstill, each vehicle a microcosm of noise and conversation. In the distance there were loud police alarms - probably the murder. And the sidewalks - there were so many people, every person in a hurry, everyone having something to do.
Yet this was the most thrilling part of the city. Here was where the night life was, with clubs and bars open, neon signs lighting up the streets more than the lampposts. It was clamor in the air, visual noise in front of the eyes, external stimulus to a point where it was nauseous.
Long wires connected newly-made telephone poles, and like the street over, crows were present. Although scared away from the ground, here they were again, watching, waiting to cast judgment. Bruce couldn’t hear them, but he could hear their soft caws, like a warning.
The red woman had paused before the crowd, before smoothly stepping in, like she was never out of place to begin with. With her eye-catching wear, she blended into the flamboyant outfits streaming out of parties. In a neat suit and dark colors, Bruce knew he didn’t fit in. Still, he tracked the woman, afraid to lose sight of her in the uncountable heads.
As the sky tipped darker, the lights grew brighter and the crowd swelled. The woman was almost impossible to track, so Bruce nearly missed her dipping into a club, with signs the same red as her fitted dress. La Pomme Rouge. The brick walls were pristine and the door was a warm shade of mahogany that invited intrigue. It was upscale, opulent, unflappable.
Bruce absently saw the doorman pressing a button behind him before he was finally allowed in. However, he soon realized that there would be no way to find the lady in red. There was too much happening, too many doors she might’ve disappeared down. She was gone.
The lights were dimming and as people sat down, Bruce spun wildly, searching. Shadows crept in from the walls, leeching the energy from the room. Vaguely, he noted the police sirens growing louder, insistently, encroaching on the atmosphere of the room. It was like the final sign that his chase had ended. He moved to a corner and sat down. The excitement of the night was over.
Everything settled momentarily, but then he saw her, in the barest corners of his eye. The woman again, this time making her way toward him. Her dress swished gently as she walked, beads clicking together. Bruce was unresisting as he was pulled near a door. Then, in his hand, he felt something being pressed into it. He looked down and saw a knife, sharp as the day it was bought and slick with blood.
The woman looked at him and gave a wry smile. Her eyes were deep with a sense of mischief, conveying an entirely one-sided message. Her name came to him in a moment. Talia. She slipped into the door behind them, just as the police barged in, lights and dogs plenty. Irrationally, Bruce felt betrayed. In his mind, he could hear the caws, the crows’ warning. Caught with the knife in his hand, he stood speechless as they took his arms and pulled out handcuffs.