The Kingmaker's Favour

…Clara… The scream cut through the night before the gunshot. People turned, some froze, and others ran. A black SUV sped out of an alley near Brookstone Avenue, its tires screeching against the wet pavement. A man stumbled out after it, clutching his chest. He took two steps before collapsing onto the sidewalk. Blood spread beneath him. Within seconds, panic erupted. Someone shouted for help. Someone else called the police. A woman covered her child’s eyes. By the time sirens echoed through the street, the SUV was already gone. Just another crime. Just another victim. Just another night in Ravenwood. Ravenwood was no longer a city people described as “unsafe.” That word felt too soft now. It had become something worse, predictable. Every week carried a new headline. A business executive was kidn*pped from his office. A teenager was robbed and left broken up outside a*****e. A young woman was assaulted on her way home. Witnesses disappear before court dates. Families receiving ransom demands that sounded unreal until they had to be paid. No one was shocked anymore. Only tired. Some blamed gangs. Others blamed the government. But most people in Ravenwood had stopped believing in simple explanations. Something bigger was working beneath the surface. Something organized. Something protected. And it was winning. I followed all of it closely because ignoring it felt dangerous. Not because I enjoyed fear, but because I worked in politics, and in Ravenwood, politics was never separate from reality. My name is Clara Rhodes. I am thirty-two years old. I hold a bachelor’s degree in Political Science and a master’s degree in Public Administration from Ravenwood State University. For seven years, I have worked in political campaigns, policy development, and community outreach. On paper, I was experienced. In reality, I was invisible. That morning, I stood inside a small campaign office watching the news play on a wall-mounted television. The latest victim of a shooting has been confirmed dead. The reporter spoke in the same calm voice used for weather updates. Authorities had no suspects. Police were requesting information from the public. I almost laughed. It was the same script every time. No suspects. No arrests. No answers. Only repetition. The broadcast changed to another story. A wealthy property developer had been kidn*pped three days earlier. His family had received a ransom demand of fifty million dollars. The number didn’t feel real anymore. It felt like a performance. Still, no one in the room reacted strongly. Only a tired silence followed. Someone muttered that nobody was safe anymore. Nobody disagreed. I turned off the television. We had work to do. The campaign office was small, crowded, and constantly under pressure. We were supporting a candidate no one expected to win. Fundraising was weak. Public attention was almost nonexistent. Still, we kept moving, because that was what politics demanded, movement even when success felt impossible. I spent most of the day reviewing schedules, editing statements, and answering emails that never stopped arriving. By midday, my focus was already fading. By afternoon, I was running on habit instead of energy. During a short break, I stepped outside. Ravenwood looked different in daylight than it did on the news. The streets were busy. Construction cranes stretched across the skyline. Glass buildings reflected the sun. On the surface, it looked like a growing, successful city. That illusion didn’t last long once you lived here. My phone rang. Evelyn Cross. I answered immediately. “Tell me you’re taking a break,” she said. “I’m working.” “You’re always working.” “That’s the job.” Evelyn had been my closest friend since university. She had left campaign politics years ago and moved into a consulting role, where money was better and stress was more controlled. She liked reminding me of that whenever I sounded tired. “How’s the campaign?” she asked. “The same.” “Meaning failing slowly?” “Meaning complicated.” She laughed softly. “That’s your way of saying failing slowly.” I didn’t argue. There was no point pretending things were better than they were. Fundraising was weak. Poll numbers were worse. Media interest barely existed. We were fighting for visibility in a city that barely noticed us. “Maybe you should stop building other people’s careers,” Evelyn said. “I’ve heard that before.” “And I’ll keep saying it.” I looked across the street at City Hall. Politicians moved in and out of the building surrounded by staff, security, and reporters. Power looked clean from a distance. It always did. “One day,” I said. “One day what?” “I’ll run myself.” Evelyn went quiet for a moment before laughing. “That’s not a dream. That’s a punishment.” “Maybe both.” “If anyone survives long enough, it’ll be you,” she said. The call ended soon after. I returned to the office and worked until evening. Meetings blurred into phone calls. Phone calls turned into silence as people slowly left for the day. By the time I finally shut down my laptop, my shoulders felt heavy. Outside, night had already taken over the city. Rain began falling softly, turning the streets into reflections of neon light. I left the building alone. The parking garage was mostly empty. My footsteps echoed against concrete walls as I walked toward my car. The silence felt heavier than usual, like the building was holding its breath. I reached my vehicle and unlocked it. The moment I opened the door, I paused. A small envelope lay on the driver’s seat, plain, unmarked, no stamp, and no return address. I hadn’t seen it when I arrived. For a moment, I just stared at it. Then I picked it up. It was light, too light, and inside was a single-folded sheet of paper. I opened it slowly. There were only a few words written in clean, precise handwriting: “It’s already begun. You just haven’t noticed it yet.” No name. No signature. Just that. I sat in the driver’s seat longer than I intended, listening to the rain hit the roof of the car. The message didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like recognition. That was somehow worse. From inside the garage, I heard footsteps echo faintly somewhere above. Slow. Measured. Unhurried. I looked up through the rear-view mirror and nothing was there. But I didn’t start the car immediately. For the first time in a long time, I realized something simple: My life in Ravenwood was no longer invisible.