“City owns these streets, bird,” Shane muttered, flicking ash near the crow’s feet. The bird cocked its head, one shiny black eye fixed on him like it understood every word. The crow didn’t flinch at the ash, or give an inch, it just picked its teeth with its beak—if birds had teeth. A cigarette hung limp from Shane’s lips; the nicotine was the only warmth in this piss hole alley of Gotham City waiting for the night. “Come here baby, and scratch my back.”
Shane flicked the cigarette into the puddle between them—a tiny hiss, a wisp of steam. The crow lunged forward, not for the butt, but for something glinting beneath the murky water. Shane’s boot came down just in time, pinning the bird’s prize under his heel. “Easy, Dracula. That’s mine. The crow let out a guttural caw that sounded almost like laughter, its wings ruffling with agitation. Shane kept his boot planted firmly on whatever the bird wanted—probably some worthless scrap—but when he shifted his weight, he felt the unmistakable contour of metal pressing into the sole of his shoe. Not just any metal. Too smooth for trash. It was the key to the Bat Cave’s, Studebaker, 1949. “Yeah, yeah,” Shane muttered, pocketing the key. “You found it. Doesn’t mean you get to keep it. It belongs to Bruce Wayne.
The crow didn’t give up. It hopped closer, wings half-spread like a gambler ready to flip his last chip onto the table. Shane exhaled through his nose, watching his breath curl in the cold air. “Persistent little bastard, aren’t you?” The bird’s beak clicked twice—deliberate, like Morse code. Shane had heard rumors about crows that worked for the wrong kind of people, but he’d always figured that was just drunk talk at the Iceberg Lounge. “”Come here baby, and scratch my back.”
