DARKMOON

I. THE MORNING SUN "Stop staring at the dust motes, Zenko. You look like a cat hallucinating," a sharp voice cut through my thoughts. The morning sun in Bandung was a liar. It streamed through the large Victorian windows of the Darkmoon Café, painting the wooden floorboards in warm, golden hues that promised a cheerful, ordinary day. I blinked, refocusing on the table in front of me. Sitting across from me was Layla Zelda, my best friend since high school. She was tearing into a croissant with the same aggressive efficiency she used when hacking into secure servers. With her short, dark hair and a leather jacket she refused to take off even in the humidity, she looked ready for a fight, or a mosh pit. "I'm not hallucinating," I defended, taking a sip of my coffee. "I'm contemplating the narrative structure of my breakfast." "It's toast, Zen," Mikhail Deva mumbled from beside me, his mouth full. Mikha, our other childhood friend, was slouching in his chair, looking disheveled as usual. "It doesn't have a narrative. Unless the bread is a metaphor for society crumbling." "Swallow before you speak, Mikha. You’re gross," Layla snapped, kicking him under the table. "Ouch! Violence is the resort of the weak, Layla," Mikha retorted, rubbing his shin. He was the connector of our group—the guy who knew every thug, street vendor, and homeless person in the city, yet somehow couldn't tie his own shoelaces without drama. "Violence is efficient," Sherryna’s voice drifted over from the counter. Sherry was standing behind the espresso machine, not making coffee, but meticulously cleaning the steam wand with a cloth. She wore a simple white shirt today, her red curly hair tied back. She looked calm, almost domestic, but I knew better. The way she held the cloth was the same way she held a knife. "See?" Layla grinned, gesturing at Sherry. "Sherry gets it." "Sherry is terrifying," Mikha whispered to me. "I think she cleans that machine just to intimidate the beans." Via, the café’s manager and the only person who could bring warmth to this place, bustled out from the back carrying a tray of fresh pastries. "Leave him alone, Layla. And Mikha, sit up straight. You’ll ruin your digestion." "Yes, Mom," Mikha grumbled, though he immediately sat up. It was a peaceful scene. Too peaceful. The banter, the smell of butter and coffee, the sunlight—it felt like a scene from a slice-of-life novel. Then, the heavy mahogany door swung open. The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. The sunlight seemed to dim. Captain Addam Deshma stepped inside. He wasn't wearing his uniform, but the trench coat and the exhausted slump of his shoulders screamed 'police business.' He looked like he hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. "Captain," Sherry said. She didn't look up, but her hands stopped moving on the machine. "You're early. The misery usually doesn't roll in until after noon." "I wish it were just misery, Sherry," Addam said, his voice gravelly. He walked to the counter, ignoring the cheerful display of pastries Via offered him. He placed a thick, water-stained file folder on the wood. "I have a nightmare. And I need you to wake me up." Layla and Mikha went silent. They knew the drill. When Addam showed up looking like that, it wasn't social. "We should go," Layla said, grabbing her bag. She stood up, smacking Mikha on the shoulder. "Come on, conspiracy boy. Let's go bother someone else." "But I haven't finished my—" Mikha started. "Now, Mikha," Layla ordered, dragging him up. She looked at me, her expression serious for a split second. "Text us if you need... you know. The usual." "I will," I promised. As the door clicked shut behind them, the warmth of the morning vanished completely. "So, how was it, Captain?" Sherry asked, putting down her tools. Her demeanor shifted instantly from bored mechanic to alert predator. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost." "Worse, Sherry," Addam said, his voice gravelly. He walked to the counter and placed a thick, water-stained file folder on the polished wood. "I’ve seen an angel. A dead one." I slid off my stool and approached. "Homicide?" "That’s the technical term," Addam said, sliding onto the stool next to me. "But my forensics team is calling it 'biblical.' And my superiors are calling it a 'closed case' to avoid a panic. I need you two. Tonight." Sherry flipped the folder open. I leaned in, expecting the usual gruesome crime scene photos. What I saw made my breath hitch. The photo showed a woman lying on the pavement of a back alley. She was young, incredibly beautiful, with skin as pale as marble. But her body was broken, twisted at unnatural angles. "Thrown?" Sherry asked, her eyes scanning the image. "Dropped," Addam corrected. "From the roof of the Merdeka Tower. Forty stories." "Suicide?" I asked. "Turn the page," Addam commanded. The next photo was a close-up of the woman's back. The skin was torn, raw and b****y. Two massive, jagged scars ran diagonally across her shoulder blades, parallel to each other. It looked as if something had been violently ripped out of her flesh. "Forensics says the tissue trauma indicates a massive tensile load before the tear," Addam said. "Whatever was attached to her back... it wasn't glued on. It was anchored to the skeletal structure." Sherry flipped to the next photo. It showed the victim's ankles and hips. On each point, there was a tattoo—a stylized, intricate wing. "We found three of them in the last two weeks," Addam said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "All different women. All stunningly beautiful. All found at the base of high-rise buildings. And all of them have these scars. And the tattoos." "Who are they?" Sherry asked. "That's the problem," Addam sighed, rubbing his temples. "They're nobody. No IDs. No wallet. No phone. We ran fingerprints, facial recognition, dental records. Nothing. It’s like they didn’t exist until they hit the pavement." "And the DNA?" I asked. "Inconclusive," Addam said. "The lab techs are baffled. They say the markers are... too clean. Too perfect. Like there’s no variance." Sherry pulled a small plastic evidence bag from the back of the folder. Inside lay a single, white feather. It was long, pristine, and shimmered with a faint, iridescent sheen under the café lights. "We found these at every scene," Addam said. "Scattered around the bodies like confetti." I stared at the feather. "So, we have beautiful, unidentified women falling from the sky, with scars where wings used to be, and feathers at the scene." "The Angel Hunter," I whispered, the title writing itself in my head. "Someone is hunting angels, ripping off their wings, and dropping them." Sherry picked up the bag, holding the feather up to the light. She wasn't looking at the beauty of it. She was looking for the flaw. "Angels don't bleed, Zenko," she said coldly. "And they certainly don't have forensic evidence." She tossed the bag back onto the folder. "This isn't theology," Sherry stated, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. "It's manufacturing." II. THE HOLLOW BONES We followed Addam to the central morgue. The transition from the warm café to the sterile, cold room was jarring. Dr. Hady, the coroner, looked pale as he pulled back the sheet. The victim was stunningly beautiful. Symmetrical features, flawless skin. But it was the damage to her back that drew the eye. "Tell them about the bones, Doctor," Sherry ordered, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. "Y-yes," Dr. Hady stammered. "When we did the X-rays to check for impact trauma... her bones. They aren't solid." "Osteoporosis?" I asked. "No," Sherry answered before the doctor could. She ran a finger along the victim's collarbone. "Avian structure. Honeycombed. Pneumatized bones." "Exactly," Dr. Hady nodded, sweating. "Incredibly light, yet reinforced. Like she was built to fly." Sherry moved to the back, inspecting the horrific wounds on the shoulder blades. She probed the tissue with a forcep. "Surgically grafted sockets fused to the scapula. Whatever was attached here bore significant weight." "Wings," I said, the word heavy in the cold air. Sherry pulled a small plastic evidence bag from the file Addam had brought. Inside was a single, white feather. She pulled a lighter from her pocket and held a flame to the tip. It melted, smelling of burning plastic. "Synthetic polymer weave," Sherry stated. "Textured to look organic, but heat-resistant and aerodynamic." She looked at Addam. "These aren't angels, Captain. They are gliders. Pilots. And the lack of ID?" "Nothing," Addam confirmed. "Fingerprints, DNA, dental... she doesn't exist." "She wasn't born, she was grown," Sherry said, her eyes narrowing. "Genetic blanks. Vessels designed for a specific purpose: Flight. Stealth insertion. But look at the legs." She pointed to the muscle atrophy in the victim's calves. "She can fly, but she can't walk for long. A specialized tool." "So the 'Angel Hunter' isn't a serial killer," Addam realized. "It's a disposal crew." "They aren't taking trophies," Sherry said grimly. "They are recovering the hardware. The wings are the expensive tech. The girls... they are just the packaging." III. THE EYRIE "We need a launch point," Sherry said as we drove through the city. "Gliders need altitude." I pulled up the city map. "The 'Skyline Zenith' project. Abandoned skyscraper construction on the northern ridge. Highest point in the city." "Owned by a shell company," Sherry noted, checking her tablet. "Standard procedure for you-know-who." Aetherian Mass Systems. We infiltrated the Zenith building an hour later. It was a skeleton of steel and concrete, wind whistling through the girders. We climbed forty flights of stairs in silence. As we neared the roof, we heard it. Whoosh. Click. We cracked the roof door open. In the center of the windswept roof, a mobile high-tech lab had been set up. Floodlights cut through the gloom. And there, standing on the edge of the precipice, was a woman. She was n***d, her back to us. Protruding from her shoulder blades were massive, magnificent white wings. They spanned three meters, articulating with mechanical precision. "Subject 7, launch," a voice commanded over a speaker. She stepped off. I gasped, rushing to the parapet. She swooped down, caught an updraft, and rose silently into the night sky. It was breathtaking. But then, a spark. A mechanical failure. She tumbled, crashing onto the lower terrace three floors down. "Recovery Team, move in," the voice barked. "Detach the unit. Discard the chassis." Two men in black tactical gear emerged on the lower terrace, carrying power tools. A circular saw revved to life. "They're going to harvest her," I said, gripping my bokken. "Not tonight," Sherry snarled. IV. THE FALLEN Sherry vaulted over the railing, sliding down a construction chute. I followed. The men reached the fallen Angel. She was moaning, alive. One man raised the saw. I lunged. My kendo training took over. I ducked under the saw's swing and brought my bokken down on his wrist. c***k. He dropped the tool. Sherry engaged the second man, disarming him with a brutal Krav Maga takedown. We stood over the Angel. Up close, her eyes were void of understanding. The wings were bolted into her flesh, metal ports oozing clear fluid. "Help... me..." she rasped. Suddenly, the door to the upper roof burst open. Six more guards poured out, led by a man in a white coat. "Subject 7 is 80% avian DNA, 20% synthetic structure," the scientist sneered from the balcony. "She is a drone. Save the wings. Neutralize the intruders." The tactical team raised their weapons. We were trapped. "Zenko," Sherry said calmly. "Can you fly?" "What?" "Grab her left side. The aerofoils are intact." "That's suicide!" "Staying here is execution. Now!" We grabbed the Angel by her arms and ran for the edge. Bullets pinged off the concrete. We leaped into the void. For a terrifying second, we fell. Then Sherry yanked the manual release cord on the harness. SNAP. The wings locked open. We jerked upward, the wind catching the synthetic feathers. We weren't flying, but we were gliding. "Steer her!" Sherry yelled. We banked right, soaring over the city lights, descending rapidly toward the dark expanse of a city park. We crashed through the tree line, branches whipping our faces, and landed in a soft patch of mud. Sherry immediately cut the harness. The Angel lay still, breathing. "We survived," Sherry said, looking back at the looming tower. "But the factory is still up there." V. THE GRAVITY OF TRUTH The aftermath was messy. Addam arrived with a tactical team to secure the park, but the lab at the Zenith was already gone. Scrubbed clean. "They don't leave crumbs," Sherry said, sipping coffee in the back of an ambulance. "We have Subject 7," Addam said. "She's stable. My doctors say the grafting is irreversible, but she can live. The wings had to be amputated." "She'll never fly again," I said. "She was never meant to land, Zenko," Sherry replied. "Grounding her is the only way to save her." Addam sighed. "I can't put 'manufactured angels' in the report." "Call it a trafficking ring," Sherry suggested. "Illegal surgical experiments." "And the Angel?" Addam asked. "Give her a name," I said. "Sarah." "Sarah," Addam agreed. "We'll put her in witness protection. Somewhere ground level." VI. THE FEATHERED CAGE A week later, the rhythm of Darkmoon Café had returned to normal. Or as normal as it ever got. It was late afternoon. The sun was setting, casting long, orange shadows across the floor. Layla and Mikha were back at our usual table. Layla was typing furiously on her laptop, while Mikha was trying to balance a spoon on his nose. "So," Layla said, not looking up from her screen. "I heard a rumor. Police raid on the north ridge. Something about a trafficking ring?" "You hear a lot of things, Layla," I said, stirring my tea. I was working on my write-up of the case. I titled it Angel Hunter. "And I heard," Mikha added, the spoon clattering to the table, "that someone saw a giant bird crash into the city park. Or maybe a drone. Or Mothman." "It was a drone," I lied effortlessly. "Police surveillance drone. Malfunctioned." Sherry walked over, placing a fresh round of drinks on the table. She looked at Mikha. "Mothman has better things to do than visit Bandung, Mikha." She glanced at my notebook. "Done with the fiction?" "Almost," I said. "Good." She walked back to the counter, picking up the radio transmitter she was always tinkering with. Layla stopped typing and looked at me. Her eyes were sharp, intelligent. She knew I was lying. She knew there was more to the story than drones and trafficking. But she didn't push. "Well," Layla said, closing her laptop. "Whatever it was, I'm glad you didn't break any bones this time, Zen. You're running out of spare parts." "I'm durable," I grinned. "You're lucky," Mikha corrected. As they bickered, I looked over at Sherry. She was staring out the window at the darkening sky. The case was closed. Sarah was safe. But the organization that built her—Aetherian Mass Systems—was still out there. They were building angels in the attic of our city. And I had a feeling that next time, they wouldn't just be learning how to fly. They'd be learning how to hunt. I closed my notebook. "Who wants dinner? My treat." "Pizza," Mikha shouted. "Pizza," Layla agreed. Sherry turned off the lights in the back, the neon sign of the café buzzing to life against the twilight. "Don't stay out too late, kids," she said, a faint, unreadable smile on her lips. "The monsters come out at night." We laughed, stepping out into the cool evening air, leaving the ghosts of the angels behind us, at least for tonight.