For a brief second, nothing happened, and Eli felt the familiar fear that he’d misjudged everything. But then Grave’s eyes shifted, not dismissively, but with focus, tracking the street with a predator’s calm, and as if summoned by attention itself, the van appeared again, tires crunching over gravel, decelerating as it approached the sandbox where a toddler had wandered away from her distracted father.
Grave stood without a word, and the rest of the Iron Ravens followed in perfect unison, chairs scraping back, coffee abandoned, the sudden silence louder than any shout. When Grave spoke again, it wasn’t to Eli, but to his brothers, issuing instructions that snapped into place like pieces of a long-prepared plan.
“North exit blocked, south alley sealed, nobody touches the kids, and nobody spooks the driver until we see what we’re dealing with.” What followed unfolded with terrifying efficiency, motorcycles roaring to life and forming a living barrier around the park, engines vibrating through the ground as the van attempted to accelerate, only to find its exits closed by steel and leather, the driver’s confidence evaporating in real time as the realization set in that the world had noticed him after all.
Grave approached the driver’s side window and knocked once, hard enough to echo, and when the glass lowered a few inches, revealing a man with sweat slicking his temples and a voice that cracked under pressure, the lie came instantly, rehearsed and weak, about being lost, about looking for an address, about harassment. Grave listened without interruption, his silence more damning than any accusation.
“Funny way to find a street,” Grave replied evenly, “passing the same playground five times without stopping anywhere else,” and when the door was opened, the truth spilled out without needing confession. The back of the van held the kind of items no innocent errand ever required, heavy restraints, duct tape, sealed snack packs designed to look friendly, and a duffel bag filled with toys still wrapped in plastic, not gifts, but bait.
The parents noticed then, fear blooming across faces as reality snapped into focus, children pulled close, whispers spreading, and Eli stood frozen at the edge of it all, the weight of what could have happened crashing into him like delayed thunder, his warning transforming into a tangible barrier between innocence and disaster.
The police arrived quickly this time, summoned not by a homeless kid waving from the curb, but by a situation impossible to ignore. The driver was taken away screaming about rights and misunderstandings, while officers photographed evidence that spoke louder than any testimony. Though the official reports would later credit “community intervention,” those who had been there knew exactly whose eyes had saved the day.
But the story didn’t end in relief, because evil rarely travels alone. As the Iron Ravens regrouped that evening, a realization settled into the room like a shadow as one of their tech-savvy members, Lena “Switch” Calder, pulled up regional reports showing similar vans, similar patterns, similar near-misses. All tied to a logistics shell company operating out of the old shipping district near Pier Eleven, a place known for its private docks and nonexistent oversight.
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