Fate

Last night, I heard a crazy woman playing the güiro in the middle of the night in a dark alley. - So what? It's the sound of death, and I think I died.

Cato still clutched the slip of paper as he woke, the words burned into his vision even when he closed his eyes. Usually, he didn't believe in fortune telling, but this message—probably written by some bored factory worker thousands of miles away—had sunk its claws into him and refused to let go.

He took a deep breath, turned to give Ellen a quick kiss on her sleeping face, and quietly left the bedroom. The morning felt wrong somehow, like a song played slightly off-key. With bottled coffee in hand, he hurried from the house, waving at Ellen as she emerged from the bedroom, following the coffee's aroma. She waved back, hoping a walk would bring him back to normal, or she'd have to sleep in her own flat again. She hated when he tossed and turned all night, muttering words in languages she didn't recognize.

As Cato stepped onto the street, heat slapped his face, carrying a cocktail of urban scents. He sniffed the air: stones, gas, dirt, and human sweat. But beneath it all lurked something he knew too well—the faint scent of demon, sweet and sulfurous like overripe fruit.

He didn't like that his father stopped by. It was always the same pattern: the lingering scent, the sense of being watched from shadows that moved independently of their sources. The demon rarely showed himself, but his presence felt heavy as storm clouds. And he only visited when something was about to happen, or when he needed a favor.

An uneasy feeling crept into Cato's stomach, cold and familiar. First the fortune cookie's prophecy, now his father's scent marking the air like a territorial claim. He hoped the feeling was wrong, though it never had been before.

He started jogging toward his favorite park, seeking a peaceful bench where he could untangle his thoughts. But as he reached the first crossroad, the unease had settled deeper, growing stronger by the second like infection spreading through his bloodstream.

Looking up, he spotted three crows passing overhead. One looked straight down at him with intelligence too sharp for any ordinary bird. Cato rubbed his eyes with his free hand, but when he looked again, the crow was still staring.

When one screeched loudly, it sent ice down his spine. Something was wrong with them—they moved with purpose, circling like they were mapping his position.

Before he could process the thought fully, they dove in perfect triangle formation. Cato threw his arms up, covering his face, but the crows were already on him—pecking, scratching, screeching with voices that sounded almost like laughter.

He sidestep and hurled his coffee at them, cursing when the lid held and the crows dodged with supernatural grace. What the hell was wrong with these birds?

One drove its beak into his neck, leaving a single cut where yellow blood—not red, never red—trickled out. The crow screeched in excitement, as if it had won some cosmic lottery.

Then it hit him. They knew. These weren't ordinary crows, and they would attack until they drew enough blood to confirm what they suspected. He pressed his hand to his neck, though he knew the wound was already healing. He couldn't give them easy access to what flowed in his veins.

As they attacked again, he ran into the street—directly into the path of an oncoming car.

The impact sent him flying, and the crows screeched even louder. They had found what they came for.

He landed several feet away, panting, and rolled onto his back. "You can't hide from your fate," he remembered Ana saying years ago. "And if you try, it will hunt you down like a wild animal."

He should have listened to her. Cursing, he pulled the paper slip from his pocket. "Your fate will catch up with you." The words seemed to pulse on the paper like a living thing.

He sighed, rolled over, and stood. The crows perched atop a street lamp now, silent but watchful as sentries.

"Are you alright, mister?" a shy voice asked behind him.

Of course. Someone had witnessed his collision with destiny. Taking a deep breath, he turned and assured the woman he was fine, that she should check on the car's driver instead.

The woman staggered backward, her face draining of color. Cato took another breath, realizing his eyes were still yellow—glowing with the light that marked him as something other than human.

She didn't move, just stared with eyes wide in shock and recognition of something that shouldn't exist in daylight.

He looked up at the crows, and they looked back with satisfaction. When they didn't move, he went to check the car. The driver looked fine except for being pale as bone, and when Cato opened the door, the man vomited.

"Well, well, my son. You did a great job here," a sly voice boomed behind him, smooth as expensive whiskey and twice as dangerous.

But Cato didn't turn. He knew that face would be wearing its usual expression of amused disappointment, yellow eyes searching for something they'd never found in all these years.

"Nice to see you too, Father," he said. "Can you help me with this, or did you just come to gloat?"

"There's way too much human in you, Cato."

"So can you help or not?" He finally turned to face the man he admired, feared, hated, and sometimes even loved. Yellow eyes bored into him, and Cato felt his own eyes beginning to burn with answering fire.

"I'm not like you and I never will be. If you have nothing useful to offer, help me or get lost!"

His father adjusted his immaculate black suit and glanced at the crows with something like pride. "But you do realize the crows of fate have found you now? They won't leave you alone anymore. Call me if you need guidance. And I think you can manage this little issue by yourself."

With that, the demon walked straight into a building's shadow and vanished, leaving only the scent of brimstone and a cold tingle down Cato's spine.

He looked down at the driver, covered in vomit and confusion, then at the woman still frozen in shock. Time for damage control.

"You'll be fine," he assured the driver, then approached the woman. Looking into her eyes, he spoke in his sweetest tone: "Could you call an ambulance? The car hit that street lamp pretty badly, and someone should check on the driver."

The woman nodded and fumbled for her phone. Cato hoped she would believe this version of events, that her mind would edit out the part where the car had hit him instead.

The crows screeched again, and the lamp crumbled sideways, sending them flying. At least now it looked like the car had actually hit something solid.

Cato took a deep breath, tasting sulfur and destiny on the morning air. Time to go home and talk to Ellen. Time to let the facade drop and see if she could handle the truth about what he really was.

The crows circled overhead, patient as death itself, waiting to see what he would choose next.