Dead Dog's Tale

Nina glided from tree to tree, silent as a stringless kite, invisible to both eye and ear except for the briefest moments she crossed the face of the moon. Her quarry scurried below, a rat among New York City’s dirtiest, frantically seeking refuge from the owl it sensed above but could not locate. The city’s filth, once overwhelming to her senses, had become almost a comfort now—another element to master, like the air she now controlled so intimately. Since her choosing, Nina had dedicated herself to honing her skills. The air was no longer just something she breathed; it was her ally, her weapon. She had learned to take soft, quiet inhales, retaining her breath mindfully, allowing her body to levitate effortlessly, as if weightless. The sensation was liberating but required exact control. One wrong move, one sharp breath, and she would shoot skyward like a balloon released from a child’s grip—untethered, wild. Her exhale had to be even more precise, timed perfectly. Too slow and she w...

Nina stood at the edge of the rooftop, her bare, itchy feet numb against the icy concrete. The wind howled around her, biting at her skin, but her body remained frozen, no longer able to feel the cold. She’d run so far, escaped so much, but here she was again—alone, cornered, staring down into the abyss. Her life had always felt like a series of endless escapes. From the day she was seven, clutching her doll as her mother and father’s car flipped and rolled on that highway in Manila, their screams echoing in her memory. Afterward, the foster homes—each one worse than the last—until she ran from them too, straight into the heart of New York City’s merciless streets. Homeless, forgotten, invisible. She had become adept at blending into the shadows, a ghost among the bustling crowd of people who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, see her. But ghosts witnessed things, didn’t they? And one night, at a familiar haunt in a filthy alley near the river, she had seen too much. The woman’s face was still etc...