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Chapter Text

Darkwing Duck - Darkest Night

Chapter One: Dark & Long

Thursday.

The city slept under a blanket of white. February was merciless this year, the kind of cold that gnawed through feathers and cloth alike, freezing breath in the air before it left your beak. Streetlamps stood as lonely sentries, their halos dim and sickly, swallowed by the falling snow. Duckburg was quiet, deceptively quiet—no laughter in the streets, no voices on the corners. Just the hum of power lines, the crunch of tires rolling over frozen asphalt, and the low growl of a motorcycle’s engine cutting through the dark.

The Ratcatcher rumbled beneath him, its frame rattling like old bones. Darkwing Duck leaned into the wind, his cape trailing behind in the wake of the machine, snapping and fluttering like some tattered banner of a war long over. His gloved hands tightened on the handlebars until the leather creaked. He should have been home. He should have been asleep. He should have been—

A civilian.

The word carried weight, sharp and bitter, a reminder of the lie he had tried to tell himself. Drake Mallard, certified public accountant. Tallying numbers in a warm office, picking Gosalyn up from school, and attending community events with a smile plastered on his face. Normal. Mundane. A man who could finally say the fight was behind him.

He had even believed it once. Believed it on the day he packed the mask away in a locked box at the back of his closet. Believed it when he promised Gosalyn that this was their new beginning—quiet, safe, ordinary.

But the city had called to him again. It always did.

The zombies had been the first crack in the façade. They had flooded Duckburg’s streets like something out of a nightmare. And when he donned the mask again, when the cape fell over his shoulders and the old instincts surged back, it felt like sliding into skin he had never truly shed. He had told himself it was temporary. He had told himself it was for Gosalyn’s sake. But deep down, he knew the truth: he couldn’t let it go.

And Gosalyn…

Darkwing exhaled, watching the plume of vapor vanish in the freezing night. She wasn’t a child anymore. She had grown taller, sharper, her eyes carrying a fire that reminded him of... himself. Eighteen. Months away from graduation. And instead of looking toward college applications or internships, she was chasing things he couldn’t even name.

Zombies. Monsters. Darker things still. Always at Webby Vanderquack’s side, her strange, brilliant, reckless girlfriend. Gosalyn’s laughter echoed in his memory—fierce, wild, unafraid—as she charged headlong into danger. It made his chest ache. He wanted to be proud of her bravery. He wanted to believe she was stronger than he ever was. But all he could feel was dread.

Heroes didn’t grow old. They didn’t get retirement parties or pensions. They left behind broken bones, scars, and gravestones.

The Ratcatcher’s headlamp carved a pale tunnel through the swirling snow. Every alley seemed to watch him. Every rooftop seemed to whisper. He had been running for so long—running from his past, from his failures, from himself—that he had forgotten what it felt like to stop. He was tired. Bone-deep tired. Days without sleep had stripped him raw, and he was left hollow, a shell stuffed with frayed nerves and half-formed fears.

But he couldn’t stop. He never stopped.

Not when the city was waiting.
Not when ghosts prowled the streets with him.
Not when the shadow of his mistakes was always a step behind.

Darkwing Duck rode on, snow crunching under his tires, the empty city stretching before him like an endless graveyard.

That was when he saw it: a lone patrol car idling at the intersection, its roof lights dark, the silhouette of a uniformed officer inside.

Darkwing’s grin crept across his beak before he could stop it. Mischief sparked in his chest, a flicker of the old showman, the performer who once thrived under the spotlight of sirens and cameras. The world might have mostly forgotten him, but he hadn’t forgotten himself.

He twisted the throttle hard. The Ratcatcher roared to life, leaping forward, its front wheel snapping skyward in a perfect wheelie. Snow sprayed in his wake, headlights glinting off the spinning rim.

The patrol car’s siren wailed, a hungry animal awakened from slumber, red-and-blue light scattering against the icy walls of storefronts. Tires screeched as the cruiser lunged into pursuit.

Darkwing laughed, the sound sharp, wild, and reckless as he cut hard down the street. “Let’s see if you can keep up with the terror that flaps in the night!”

The Ratcatcher skidded on a patch of black ice, fishtailing dangerously before he corrected it with a savage jerk of the handlebars. His cape lashed in the wind behind him, the freezing air biting at his eyes as he tore down Duckburg’s slumbering avenues.

The cop was good. Too good. Every time Darkwing slipped into a side street, the cruiser was there at the corner, lights bouncing off snowbanks like lightning. He swerved around a delivery truck stalled at the curb, narrowly missing a trash can that exploded into a cloud of frozen refuse. The cruiser followed, its bulk lumbering but relentless, a predator refusing to lose its prey.

Darkwing ducked low, the Ratcatcher rattling beneath him as he shot through a yellow light, ignoring the crunch of metal as a parked sedan’s mirror snapped clean off his handlebars. His heart pounded with adrenaline, fatigue momentarily burned away in the fire of the chase.

This was danger.
This was chaos.
This was life.

But the cop was still on him. Always on him.

He darted left down a narrow street, the sound of the cruiser’s engine magnified by the canyon of buildings around them. The snow blurred into streaks, the city becoming a smear of shadow and light. Darkwing leaned hard into another turn, so tight his boot scraped sparks off the pavement. The Ratcatcher bucked, almost throwing him, but he held on with white-knuckled determination.

And then he saw it ahead—familiar walls, graffiti scrawled across brick, dumpsters piled high with snow. His stomach sank even as his grin remained.

The alley.

He knew it well. Too well. It was a dead end, a grave for the foolish.

The Ratcatcher screamed into the alley, tires carving a serpentine trail through the thin crust of snow before Darkwing wrenched the handlebars sideways. The bike skidded broadside, sparks spitting from steel as it shrieked across the asphalt in a long, defiant slide. His cape fanned wide, the silhouette of a bird of prey etched against the blinding beams of the cruiser behind him.

The patrol car lurched to a halt across the mouth of the alley, its doors pinning him in. Sirens wailed once, then died with a mechanical cough, leaving only the harsh hum of the engine and the buzz of falling snow.

Darkwing swung off the Ratcatcher, feet crunching against the frost-bitten pavement. He straightened slowly, theatrically, tugging his cape about his shoulders as the car door pushed open.

“Freeze!” The voice cracked sharply through the night, crisp and commanding. Female. Commanding. No hesitation.

Darkwing smirked beneath his mask. “Do you know who I am?”

“Hands where I can see them. Turn around. Now.”

The cruiser’s headlights blazed, bleaching the alley in stark white. He couldn’t make out the officer’s face, only the silhouette framed by glare. The snow danced in between them, sparks drifting in the beams.

With an exaggerated sigh, Darkwing turned. He raised his hands, the cape falling about him like the wings of some tired phantom.

“I am the terror that flaps in the night,” he intoned, his voice low, rich with mock gravity. “I am the chill that bites through the marrow of evildoers everywhere—”

“—you’re under arrest for reckless driving,” the officer snapped, steps crunching steadily closer. “And maybe for sounding like a lunatic.”

A gloved hand patted firmly across his shoulders, down his sides, methodically. The touch was professional—until it wasn’t.

The frisk lingered a beat too long at his waist, then slid lower.

Darkwing stiffened, eyes darting sideways, feathers prickling. “That's not a gun,” he chuckled, "But I am happy to see you."

The hand cupped boldly between his legs, squeezing just enough to leave no doubt.

“Show me,” the officer whispered in his ear, warm breath cutting through the cold, “how much of a hero you really are.”

Darkwing blinked, then grinned slow and wide, “Good to see you, María… your place?”

They were already stripping each other down as María opened her apartment door and they tumbled inside.

They kissed, hands roamed, and clothing fell to the floor as the heat between them grew. María’s tan feathers and shoulder-length brown hair looked like a painting come to life in the soft glow of the streetlamp that filtered through the window. Her eyes, so full of passion, searched his. Drake felt his pulse race, not just from the thrill of the chase, but from the raw, animal attraction that had drawn them together so many times before.

María’s apartment was a sanctuary from the cold outside, a place where the scents of candles and incense mingled with the faint aroma of gun oil and leather. The furniture was simple but well-kept, a testament to her no-nonsense lifestyle. The walls were adorned with framed photos of her and her friends and family. But they paid little mind to their surroundings as Drake pulled María's shirt open, revealing her full breasts stuffed into a black lace bra as María barely kicked the apartment door closed.

Their kisses grew more urgent, tongues dancing a fiery tango as they moved towards the bedroom, shedding their layers of protection—his cape and her uniform—like discarded armor from a battle already won. The bed was unmade, but it didn’t matter; they were too eager to let propriety stand in the way.

"I've been thinking about you," María murmured as she kissed Drake's neck.

"I know," he replied, his voice gruff with desire as he unbuttoned her pants. "I've been thinking about you too. I need you, María."

Drake roughly tugged down María's pants, revealing the curve of her hips and the black thong she wore. She stepped out of them, kicking them aside, and reached for the clasp of her holster. The gun thudded to the floor, followed by her shirt,forgotten in the face of the passion that had ignited between them. He took her in, kneeling before her as María sat on her bed.

María's hand slid up his neck, her thumb tracing the edge of his mask. "I fucking need you," she whispered, her voice thick with desire.

Drake curled his fingers in the waistband of her thong, sliding it down her feathered legs as he whispered back, "Just relax, let me taste you."

María leaned back as he kissed along her inner thighs, the heat of his breath making her tremble. He took his time, savoring every inch of her, until he reached the apex of her desire. He kissed her softly, tenderly, the tip of his beak teasing her clit. She gasped, her hands finding his head, urging him closer, her thighs parting further. The world outside, with its cold and chaos, faded away as he lapped at her, his tongue skillful, his passion unbridled.

"Fuck," María moaned as Drake slurped and licked at her, the sound of her voice bouncing off the walls of the small room. Her hips bucked, pushing herself against his face, demanding more. He obeyed, his tongue delving into her wetness, exploring her with a hunger that had been denied for too long. Her legs quivered as she felt herself getting closer and closer to climax, her body responding to the skilled attention he was giving her.

María’s eyes rolled back in her head as Drake’s mouth moved faster, his beak nibbling at her clit with a gentle pressure that had her panting. Her nails dug into his neck, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Yes, yes, like that," she encouraged, her voice a whimper.

The bed creaked beneath her as she grew wetter, her hips jerking in time with his rhythm. Drake’s tongue danced around her folds, probing and teasing, until she couldn’t hold back anymore. With a cry that could have shattered the winter silence, she came, her body tensing as waves of pleasure crashed through her. Drake held on, drinking her in, the taste of her arousal on his tongue.

As she lay there, panting and trembling, Drake stood, shedding his mask and the last of his gear and clothing. His feathers stood on end, his eyes gleaming with desire, his cock hard, thick, and proud between his legs. He watched her, savoring her beauty as she caught her breath.

"Come here," María cooed, motioning with a finger, "I need you inside me."

Her words sent a tremor through Drake, the desire in her eyes a mirror to the ache in his loins. He climbed onto the bed, his feathers brushing against the cold sheets, his cock already slick with precum. She took him in her hand, stroking him gently before guiding him to her entrance. He paused for a moment, feeling the heat of her, the slickness of her arousal, before he pushed inside.

María’s eyes widened as he filled her, her walls tightening around his shaft. She moaned, arching her back, her breasts bouncing as he began to move, setting a steady rhythm that had them both panting. Her feathers fluttered with each thrust, a symphony of pleasure playing out in the dim light. He watched her face, the way her eyes screwed shut and her beak parted in cries of ecstasy. It had been so long since he had felt this, the raw need to claim and be claimed, the dance of dominance and submission that played out between them.

Drake kissed her as his hips bucked faster, tongues clashing. Her legs wrapped around him, her heels digging into the firm muscles of his back, urging him deeper. The bed squealed in protest with every thrust, the headboard thumping against the wall in a steady, primal rhythm that seemed to echo the heartbeat of the city outside. Their bodies moved in perfect harmony, a dance of passion that had been choreographed by countless nights of secret meetings and stolen moments.

"María," Drake grunted her name as his thrusts grew more erratic, his breath coming in ragged pants. His eyes searched hers, seeking the connection that had brought them to this moment. "I'm close."

Her own eyes, dark with need, searched his. "Cum for me," she whispered, her voice a seductive promise, "Cum in me." She tightened her grip on his shoulders, her nails digging into his flesh as she matched his rhythm, her hips rising to meet every thrust. Her body was a maelstrom of sensation, every nerve alight with the fire of their passion.

María's walls tightened around him, her muscles contracting in a prelude to her second climax. She bit her lower lip, trying to hold back the scream building in her throat. But when he finally reached his peak, it tore free, a raw cry that seemed to shake the very foundations of the world as her orgasm ripped through her. Her nails dug into his back, leaving a trail of red under his feathers, as he buried himself deep within her, filling her with his warmth. For a moment, time froze, the city outside forgotten as they clung to each other, the only sound their mingled gasps and the thunder of their hearts...

Snow hissed against the windowpane, muffling the world outside.

The apartment smelled of sweat and perfume, the air heavy, damp with heat that clung to the skin. Sheets tangled around their legs in a careless knot, feathers matted, bodies sprawled in the aftermath of something rough, something desperately needed.

Drake lay on his back, chest heaving. His feathers glistened with a sheen of sweat that cooled quickly in the cool air, making him shiver. Beside him, María sprawled half atop his chest, her dark hair damp against his feathers, her beak curved with the faintest, satisfied smirk.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Just breathing. Just heartbeats slowing in tandem.

Finally, María broke the silence. “So…” She stretched lazily, her hand tracing idle circles across his sternum. “Tomorrow’s the big day. A road trip to St. Canard.”

Drake grunted, staring at the ceiling. “Mm.”

She propped herself up on an elbow, studying him. “That’s it? Just ‘mm’? You’ve been pacing circles around this for weeks, Drake.”

His eyes flicked to hers, heavy-lidded, shadowed. “I know what it is. I don’t need to talk it to death.”

“Maybe you don’t,” María said, a sharp edge in her tone now, “but I do. You shut everything in. You brood until it eats you alive. And you wonder why your daughter doesn’t know about us.”

That name made him wince, just slightly. Gosalyn.

María pressed on, voice low. “She’s eighteen. Not a child. Do you really think she’s too fragile to know her father’s not some lonely recluse?”

Drake exhaled hard, rubbing a hand over his face. The exhaustion in the gesture was unmistakable. “She has her own battles, María. Bigger than she should ever have to face. Monsters. Ghosts. Things that—” His voice caught. “Things I can’t always protect her from. I’m not about to throw one more complication into her life just because her old man can’t keep it in his pants.”

María’s smirk vanished. She sat up fully now, grabbing the sheet and pulling it across her chest more from agitation than modesty. “Complication? That’s what I am to you?”

“No,” he said quickly, sitting up as well. The shadows under his eyes made him look older than he was, beaten down. “You’re the only thing keeping me sane.” He reached for her hand, but she pulled away, her eyes narrowing.

“When’s the last time you slept, Drake?” she asked suddenly.

He blinked, caught off guard.

“Don’t play dumb. Look at yourself. You’ve got shadows deeper than midnight under your eyes. You’ve been running on fumes for—what? Two days? Three? What are you trying to prove?”

Drake gave a humorless chuckle. “Heroes don’t sleep. Haven’t you heard?”

María leaned in, her hand seizing his jaw, forcing him to look at her. “Heroes burn out. And die. Just like your friend.”

The words hit like a hammer, and for a moment his façade cracked—the weary, guilty pain in his eyes too naked to hide.

Tomorrow, he would be going to Launchpad McQuack's grave.

María’s fingers lingered on his jaw, then softened as she let go, her eyes studying him in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. The silence stretched, heavy with all the things neither wanted to say. Finally, she broke it with a quieter voice, careful but probing.

“Are you sure you even want me to come tomorrow?”

His brow furrowed. “What kind of question is that?”

“I mean—” she shifted, tucking the sheet closer around herself, her shoulders rolling with unease—“you’re planning on meeting your old allies, right? The Justice Ducks that you told me about. The ones you used to run with. I don’t want to be… I don’t know. A third wheel. Standing there while you catch up with old war buddies.”

Drake reached for her hand again, this time holding it firmly before she could pull away. His grip was warm, desperate. “I need you there.”

She blinked, startled by the weight in his voice.

“You’re the better part of my new life, María,” he said, low and rough. “Without you, I’m just… drifting. You’re the anchor.”

That softened her for a heartbeat—but she was María Cabrera, and softness was never left unchallenged. She shook her head, her smirk returning, though her eyes betrayed concern. “Not much of a new life if you’re still patrolling the streets at night. Different city, same cape. What’s the difference between Duckburg and St. Canard when you’re out there chasing ghosts?”

Drake leaned back against the headboard, his gaze distant. “It’s the only time I feel at peace,” he admitted. “Crunching numbers in some office all day? That’s torture. Beating up purse snatchers? That’s simple. That I can understand.”

María sighed, her hand tightening around his. “What about me?” she asked quietly. “Do I bring you peace? Am I enough? You don’t need to be that hero anymore, Drake. You could just…” she searched his face, her voice breaking into something softer, almost pleading, “you could just be happy.”

His eyes flicked to hers, weary but steady, the words coming out before he could stop them.

“Will you marry me?”

María froze, blinking once. Then she laughed—a sharp, incredulous sound that filled the small apartment. She slapped his chest lightly, shaking her head. “Now I know you’re lacking sleep.”

But when she looked back at him, really looked, the laughter faltered.

Because Drake Mallard wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t joking. His eyes, rimmed with fatigue, ringed in shadows, carried nothing but quiet sincerity.

And it unsettled her more than anything.

María watched him rise from the tangled sheets, chest rising and falling with the aftermath of passion, feathers damp, limbs slick with heat. Her voice, soft but firm, broke the quiet.

“Drake… I love you,” she said, her dark eyes glinting in the bedside lamp’s glow. “I do. But marriage? We’ve only known each other for a few months. I have my life, my job… and you… you have your demons to fight.”

He didn’t respond immediately. He stepped to the window, still nude, the cold draft brushing against him, sharpening every nerve. Outside, snow fell like ash over the city. Sirens murmured in the distance, a ghostly hymn for the restless.

And it called to him.

Out there, on the streets, that was where he belonged. That was him. The man beneath the cape. The predator, the savior, the shadow.

But he looked back at her—at María—and the pull weakened, just enough for doubt to creep in. His voice came quiet, low, almost a whisper to himself.

“What if I did give it all up?” he said, shoulders tense, spine rigid. “What if I stopped being Darkwing Duck and just… Drake Mallard. For you?”

María’s lips curved into the faintest smile, her eyes softening. “I would love that, more than you can imagine. More than anything. But… I don’t think you’re ready to hang up your cape.”

He studied himself, bare in the muted light. Scars traced his body under his feathers like a roadmap of past battles—gunshots, burns, knife gashes, bruises, and broken bones that had long since healed but still throbbed with memory. He flexed his hands slowly, almost absently.

“You don’t owe anyone anything,” María continued, sensing the storm behind his gaze. “You’ve given enough. More than enough.”

Drake let out a long, slow breath, jaw tight. Enough. Had he? He had given his body, sweat, blood, feathers, and yet, standing there in the dark, looking at the falling snow, he wondered if one more pound of flesh could be claimed. One more debt he must pay to a city that didn’t even know his name.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken regrets and promises. Finally, María’s voice pierced the stillness, gentle but firm.

“Come to bed, Drake. Long drive tomorrow. You’ll need rest.”

He turned back, allowing the shadows in his eyes to soften as he joined her in the sheets again. He curled behind her, arms draping over her form, holding her close. Warmth and soft weight grounded him.

But sleep? Sleep did not come.

Not really.

Drake Mallard—the man—lay awake in the dark, listening to her steady breathing, feeling the rise and fall of her chest beneath his hand. Darkwing Duck—the legend, the terror—remained alert, mind wandering the empty streets outside, thinking of shadows, of threats, of the ghosts of St. Canard that had never truly left him.

He closed his eyes, pretending for María’s sake, pretending for a moment that he could be just a man in bed, just her man. But even as he felt her warmth and love, his mind chased the night, the city, the call of the hero he could never fully escape.

Sleep did not come.

And Drake Mallard, Darkwing Duck, knew it never would.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two: Woman Got My Devil

Friday.

Drake moved through the kitchen in methodical silence, the floorboard heater cutting through the morning chill that seeped through the poorly insulated suburban windows. He spooned a measure of instant coffee crystals into his travel mug, then poured boiling water over it, the steam curling like soft smoke above the mug’s rim. Black slacks, pressed white shirt, black tie—he looked every inch the competent everyman he was supposed to be, but the faint shadow under his eyes told another story entirely.

From the living room came laughter—light, playful, the kind that felt almost foreign in Drake’s exhausted veins. Gosalyn sat curled up on the couch, blanket draped over her legs, Webby wedged snugly beside her. They were watching some animated movie, one of the older, brightly colored classics that Drake knew by heart from years past.

“Make sure you’re wearing layers if you two plan on going out,” he said over his shoulder, spooning sugar into the mug. “It’s cold enough to freeze a duckling’s feathers off. And don’t—”

“Dad,” Gosalyn interrupted, lounging sideways on the couch with Webby draped across her lap, “I’m perfectly capable of wearing more than one sweater. Will you stop worrying so damn much? I'm eight—”

Drake finished her sentence. “—teen, right. As you keep telling me. Eighteen or not, you still have a propensity for… well, for doing stupid things. For instance, the other day, you—”

“—fought a vampire in the alley behind the arcade?” Gosalyn finished with mock offense, raising an eyebrow. “Ah, yes, Dad, because I’m incapable of taking care of myself.”

“Exactly!” Drake barked, grabbing a clean spoon from the drawer. “You’re reckless! And I don’t need Webby here trying to convince me otherwise!”

Webby sat up, hair sticking up from the static on Gosalyn's sweater, hands spread wide as though presenting a peace treaty. “Hey, I will keep her in line,” she said with a sly grin. “Rope if necessary. Not that it ever comes to that.” She wiggled her fingers, and Gosalyn laughed, shoving her gently.

Drake groaned, rubbing at his temples. “Rope? Really? Just remember the rules—”

“No parties,” Gosalyn said cheerfully. “No summoning spirits with nude devil worship. Just a movie and snacks. And Webby threatening me with rope. That’s all.”

Drake muttered under his breath, setting the mug down and crossing his arms. “You two make my blood pressure spike before ten in the morning.”

“I’m just here to help maintain civil order,” Webby said with mock solemnity.

“Civil order,” Drake echoed, eyeing the two of them. “In my house. That’s a full-time job.”

Gosalyn snorted. “Yeah, Dad, we know. It’s why you’re always so tired and grumpy.”

“At this rate, you're not going to see a nineteenth birthday,” he shot back, though his eyes softened despite the exasperation. “And Webby—you better keep her on the straight and narrow, or—”

“Rope,” Webby finished for him, holding up an imaginary lasso. Gosalyn laughed, leaning back against the cushions, "I got this, Mr. Mallard."

Just then, a honk from the street outside. Drake’s eyes snapped to the window, the movement sharp and reflexive. María’s car idled at the curb, polished black in the morning light, her silhouette leaned slightly out the driver’s side window, giving him a quick, teasing wave.

Drake let out a long exhale, shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “That’s my ride,” he muttered, picking up the travel mug again. “Time to go face the ghosts of my past.”

Gosalyn and Webby exchanged a glance. “Sounds ominous,” Webby said, grinning. “Have a safe trip.”

Drake turned, giving them both a smile. “You kids enjoy your weekend. Love you, Gos.”

Gosalyn waved lazily, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Love you too, old man. Now get going. We have rope stuff to talk about in private.”

Drake shook his head, a smile threatening despite the tension in his chest. “I’m getting too old for this shit,” he muttered.

He slung his bag over his shoulder, adjusted his tie one last time, and headed for the door, the muted crunch of snow outside already calling him to the streets.

Drake tossed his bag into the backseat with a soft thud and slid into the passenger seat. He leaned over just long enough to brush his beak lightly against María’s, a fleeting kiss, before settling back and tugging at his tie.

“I didn’t hear you leave last night,” María said, her eyes flicking toward him as she adjusted the seatbelt. There was a faint edge to her tone, a knowing undercurrent.

“I went home,” Drake said casually. “Slept… more.”

María raised an eyebrow, but didn’t press it further. The look in her eyes said it all—she knew he was lying, and he didn’t correct her. Some things, he thought, didn’t need verbal confirmation.

She shifted the car into gear, tires crunching against the thin layer of snow that clung to the road, and they set off. No music. No talk radio. Just the quiet hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of wind against the doors.

“So,” María said, breaking the silence gently, “what exactly are Gosalyn and her… cohort… getting up to while you’re gone for the weekend?”

Drake let out a dry chuckle, eyes on the road ahead. “Something about rope?”

María laughed, a short, sharp sound that warmed the cold interior of the car. “Forget I asked. They’re good though? I know things have been… well, weird is an understatement, but fighting things that go bump in the night? They’re so young. That incident with Mari Lwyd still has me shaken.”

Drake’s expression softened. “I trust them fully,” he said, tone even, thoughtful. “There’s no one better suited for this than Gosalyn, Webby, and their friends. They’re smart, resourceful, brave—more than I ever was at their age. And honestly… if someone can survive this chaos and still laugh about it afterward, they’ll be alright.”

María nodded, eyes on the windshield, snowflakes drifting past in muted streaks. “I just… worry,” she admitted. “It’s hard not to. They’ve seen things—more than they should have. And yet they keep going. They’re… relentless.”

Drake smiled faintly, a mixture of pride and lingering worry tugging at his chest. “That’s my girl. And Webby. They’re ready. Sometimes the best defense is the one they don’t even know they’re capable of.”

María let the words hang for a moment, her hand brushing against the gearshift as they drove through the pale, winter morning. Silence returned, but this time it was comfortable, a shared understanding. The road ahead was long, the streets quiet, and the city behind them slowly swallowed by snow and memories.

The snow had turned to sleet by the time they reached St. Canard, painting the streets in a slick sheen of ice and grime. The city loomed around them, taller, harsher, and far more oppressive than Duckburg. Art deco towers rose like frozen monuments from the fog, their metal frames gleaming under the muted glow of streetlamps. Neon buzzed faintly in some corners, flickering with an old-world hum. St. Canard felt trapped in a different time, a metropolis locked in chrome and shadow.

María navigated the streets, the tires wet with slush against the gritty snow as they finally pulled up to the hotel.

“The Grand Sentinel,” she read off the wrought-iron marquee, the golden letters glinting in the half-light. The building was a relic of the city’s more glamorous era—tall, imposing, marble floors in the lobby, chandeliers dripping crystal over red velvet carpets. Despite the grandeur, there was a faint decay to it: chipped plaster, scuffed brass, the faint smell of damp and old smoke lingering in the air.

Drake grabbed his bag from the backseat, then nudged María. “Welcome to your weekend getaway. I figured—”

“—you’d pick somewhere ridiculous and over-the-top?” María finished, her eyebrow raised as they strode into the lobby.

“Exactly!” Drake said, feigning offense. “I wanted someplace special. Not… your dingy little apartment with the peeling paint and the door that squeaks.”

María rolled her eyes, poking her tongue out at him. “You never complained before,” she said, voice teasing. “Especially when I’m screaming your name.”

Drake laughed, a low, amused sound. “You got me there.”

They checked in quickly, and soon they were heading up an elevator to their room. Drake held the door for her like a gentleman, a small flourish of showmanship in his step.

The suite was impressive—two rooms, a sitting area with heavy leather chairs, a small wet bar, and a bedroom with a king-sized bed. A faint fire glowed in the hearth, artificial but warm, making the golds and deep reds of the suite seem almost decadent.

“I went all out,” Drake said, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulder. “Figured I’d treat you to something nice instead of—”

“—instead of your feigned concern for my comfort at home,” María finished again, plopping down on the edge of the bed and crossing her arms.

“Ha! You wound me,” Drake said, pretending to clutch his chest. “I’m a generous man, you know. Besides, it’s not every day you get the city’s premier ex-hero to spoil you.”

María smirked, standing and pacing toward the window, looking down at the dark streets below. “I’ll admit… it is nice,” she said softly. Then, smirk returning, “but don’t think this changes anything. You’re still ridiculous. And dramatic. And I like it anyway.”

Drake chuckled, moving closer to her, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She tapped his chest lightly, grinning. “You will take it. Or I’ll make you.”

“And here I thought I was the hero,” Drake said, stepping back slightly, mock indignation in his tone. “But you—detective extraordinaire—are the real threat.”

María laughed, spinning on her heel, the sound echoing faintly off the high ceilings. “Don’t get used to it, Mallard. You’re on borrowed time. Tomorrow, we deal with graves and old ghosts, remember?”

Drake’s eyes softened as he watched her, the city outside cold and unforgiving, but this moment warm and alive. “I know. But tonight… tonight, we have this. And I’m not giving it up to anyone. Not even St. Canard.”

She smirked again, shaking her head. “You are hopeless.”

“And you love it,” he said, grinning.

“Maybe,” María replied, letting the words hang, teasing and sincere all at once.

María sauntered over and flopped onto the bed with a soft, satisfied sigh. She propped herself up on one elbow, letting the sheets slide lazily over her legs, and turned her gaze on Drake.

“So, what’s the plan?” she asked, the smirk tugging at her beak wickedly. Her thighs pressed together deliberately, hand drifting over the curve of her breast beneath her blouse. “Room service? Maybe some wine? Maybe a little… me?”

Drake raised a single eyebrow, letting a slow grin spread across his bill. The corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement.

“Keep your panties on, Detective,” he said, voice low, teasing. “You’re about to meet some old friends.”

María blinked, her playful expression faltering for the briefest moment. She sat up straighter, eyes narrowing slightly.

“What?”

The hotel bar was warm, the air heavy with the scent of polished wood, faint smoke, and spiced liquor. Outside, sleet streaked the windows in silver rivulets, reflecting the muted neon of St. Canard’s art deco streets. Drake and María sat at a corner table, two low-backed leather chairs pulled close together, their drinks untouched as the hum of conversation and soft jazz filled the room.

Drake leaned back, one hand resting casually on the table, the other tapping absently against his beer bottle. “Quiet before the storm,” he muttered, though the words carried a trace of nostalgia.

María glanced around the dim room, taking in the shadows, the flicker of artificial candlelight in sconces along the wall. “I swear, you're more nervous than I am,” she said softly. “I can't wait to meet them.”

Drake gave a small smile, but before he could respond, the bar swung open. A tall, lean duck with tan feathers, a beige shirt, black slacks, and a perfectly knotted purple tie stepped inside. His pocket protector bulged with pens, glinting under the dim lights. He adjusted his tie nervously, his gaze flicking from the bar to the table where Drake and María sat.

“Drake,” the duck said, voice low and precise, “I assume this is the María you told me about?”

Drake stood slightly, gesturing with a casual wave. “Fenton Crackshell. Or, if you prefer… Gizmoduck in full battle regalia.”

Fenton blinked, sheepish. “That was… a long time ago,” he murmured, sliding into a chair across from the couple. He extended a precise, careful hand toward María. “Pleased to meet you, Detective. I work in a lab now, less… hazardous than my previous pursuits.”

María smiled politely, shaking his hand. The grip was firm but measured, almost clinical, and she felt the faint prickle of energy from a mind that never truly stopped calculating.

“Lab assistant, huh?” she asked, tilting her head. “Not quite a suit of armor and laser blasters.”

Fenton’s thin smile twitched. “No, but the experiments are safer, and I still get to save people—just… indirectly.”

And just as Fenton ordered a drink, the door opened again with a louder jingle of the bell. A scrawny green-feathered duck in an oversized Adidas tracksuit stepped in, practically bouncing with energy. He caught sight of Drake and María and strode forward, shaking her hand with such force that she nearly yelped.

“Joey Larson,” Drake said, gesturing for the duck to take the empty chair across from them. “Also known as Stegmutt.”

Joey’s grin was sheepish as he sat, “Yeah… when I get angry, I used to turn into a giant Stegosaurus. Yoga now keeps me… mostly normal.”

María blinked, staring at him for a beat, “I… see,” she said carefully, giving a short laugh. “Yoga… makes sense.”

Joey shrugged. “Keeps the spikes from flying, mostly.”

Then, one more entered. The door swung open, and a tall, imposing figure glided into the room. Her jade-green scales shimmered faintly under the warm light, yellow eyes scanning the room before settling on the duck-surrounded table. Two pink fins were flattened on either side of her head, and a long coat hung loosely around her shoulders, hood pulled up to obscure most of her face.

Neptunia stepped closer, her hand extending for María’s. As their hands met, the webbed fingers and the slight wetness of her grip were unmistakable. “Neptunia,” Drake introduced. “She fights those who would pollute the seas. Still very much on active duty.”

Neptunia’s smile was warm, her presence commanding despite the quiet strength radiating from her. “It’s good to meet you, Detective,” she said, her tone measured but sincere. “Drake’s told me… enough to know you’re important.”

María returned the handshake, surprised by the strength behind it, and allowed herself a small, genuine smile. “Likewise. It’s… not every day I meet a fish lady who saves the oceans.”

The five of them settled into the table with a quiet ease as Drake gestured toward the bartender. Drinks were poured, the low hum of the hotel bar creating a bubble of warmth and camaraderie.

María leaned back in her chair, fingers loosely wrapped around her glass. The warmth of the whiskey seeped into her body, but it wasn’t enough to chase away the cold weight settling in her chest. She listened, quietly at first, as Drake’s friends swapped stories—some funny, some harrowing. Fenton talking about the time Gizmoduck accidentally short-circuited an entire block with one of his suits. Joey grinning as he recounted his first “transformation” into Stegmutt, the panic, the destruction, and how clothing wasn't exactly an option. Neptunia’s voice, deep and resonant, describing her battles against illegal whalers and the monsters that crawled from the depths.

They laughed, clinked glasses, and sometimes fell silent, the silence pregnant with all they hadn’t said aloud—losses, scars, and memories of battles that had left them marked both inside and out. María felt it too, a palpable camaraderie born not of words but of shared danger, shared survival.

And then she looked at Drake.

He wasn’t flashy, not tonight. He wasn’t the reckless Darkwing Duck streaking through Duckburg, adrenaline and chaos as his constant companions. Here, in this quiet bar, surrounded by others who had been through hell and come out alive, he seemed… at peace. He laughed easily, joked, and gestured naturally. There was a lightness to him she hadn’t seen in weeks.

And a small, stubborn part of her wondered… maybe he shouldn’t give it up.

Not completely.

The thought nagged at her. Drake, her Drake—the man who fought too long, who carried too much—had a place here, with these people who understood him in ways she couldn’t. She was proud of him, deeply, but there was that gnawing doubt in her chest. What did she bring to this? A badge? Years of police training? She was a damn good cop, yes—but compared to these people, living, breathing superheroes, she felt… small.

She imagined herself trying to step into their world, into the fellowship of superpowers, the comfort of scars that no one else could see, and she faltered. She had no suit of armor, no cybernetic enhancements, no finned body that could swim through toxic oceans and come out unscathed. She had herself. Her instincts. Her training. Her determination. And Drake.

But even that felt inadequate sometimes. Did she belong here? At his side, among these titans of the extraordinary, or was she just the mortal anchor in a storm of legends? Did he need her to complete the picture, or was she simply along for the ride, trying not to break under the weight of everything she could never be?

She shook her head slightly, as if to dislodge the spiraling thoughts. Drake was smiling across the table, animated and alive, genuinely present with his friends. And as much as it made her heart ache, it made her respect him even more. He didn’t need to put on a mask here. He didn’t need to fight anyone. For the first time in a long time, he could just be himself.

And maybe… maybe her role wasn’t to be extraordinary like them. Maybe it was to be steadfast, to be the quiet part of his life that grounded him when everything else threatened to pull him apart. A partner, a confidant, a lover. Someone who kept him tethered, even when the stakes were impossibly high, and the villains unimaginably deadly.

Her fingers tightened around her glass. She glanced down, then up again at him, and a thought—both terrifying and exhilarating—struck her.

No matter how small she felt here, she was part of his life. Not because of superpowers, not because she fought monsters in fantastical ways, but because he trusted her. Because he chose her.

She smiled faintly to herself, letting the warmth of that realization settle. She didn’t need to compete with superheroes. She just needed to be María Cabrera—Detective, partner, and the one person he could come home to, even when the city burned around them.

Then, the bar’s door swung open with a jingle-heavy thud against the stopper. María glanced over, half-expecting another patron stumbling in, but what she saw instead made her straighten in her chair.

A crow. Tall, sharp, purposeful. Her trench coat hung perfectly tailored around her shoulders, a tan slash of fabric against sleek black feathers. She pulled off her wide-brimmed hat, shaking loose a few droplets of melted snow, and immediately the badge glinting at her hip caught the dim light of the bar lamps. Her eyes—keen, cutting—swept across the room until they landed squarely on their table.

María felt a subtle shift in the atmosphere. Drake stiffened before she even touched his arm. She nudged him lightly, trying to joke away the tension, “Uh, another friend?”

The whole table turned to follow her gaze. Drake’s reaction was immediate and telling—he slumped lower in his seat, muttering into his glass, “Ah, shit.”

It was Fenton, of all people, who leaned toward María, whispering low, though not low enough for her stomach not to twist at every word,

“Inspector Reiko Tezuka. Our ally in the St. Canard police… and, uh—” He hesitated, trying to find some way of explaining it with tact, but instead just blurted. “Drake’s ex-girlfriend.”

María blinked. The word rattled around in her head. Ex.

She had never asked. Of course, Drake had had lovers before her—he was too charismatic, too intense not to. And she’d assumed there were stories he’d share in time, if they mattered. But seeing one in the flesh—well, feathers—wasn’t something she’d been prepared for. Her gut tightened, and despite herself, a sour taste prickled the back of her throat.

The crow cut a sleek figure as she approached, moving with the confidence of someone who knew exactly the effect she had on people. A small grin tugged at her beak as she reached their table.

“Well, well. A gathering of burnouts and retirees.” Her voice was smooth, practiced, like a blade sliding from its sheath. “How are St. Canard’s former heroes doing?”

Drake all but tried to sink into the floor. Fenton cleared his throat nervously, Joey looked confused but smiled anyway, and Neptunia only crossed her scaled arms with a patient sigh, clearly familiar with this dynamic.

Inspector Tezuka moved around the table with casual ease, greeting each of them in turn—Fenton with a professional nod, Neptunia with surprising warmth, Joey with a quirked brow and a chuckle. Then, finally, she stopped in front of Drake.

“Hello, Drake.”

His name lingered on her beak like smoke, like something she owned. María’s jaw tightened.

The crow’s eyes flicked past him and landed on her. Sharp, curious, appraising. That grin returned, softer this time, though María didn’t miss the edge beneath it, “Well. You’re new.”

María set her glass down slowly, steadying her voice before she replied. Her heart beat a little harder in her chest, not from fear, but from the sudden awareness that she was, in fact, being sized up.

“Detective María Cabrera. Duckburg PD,” she said, extending her hand across the table as Drake's ex sat. Then, after a fractional pause, she added, “And with Drake.”

The addendum landed like a quiet claim, edged with a possessiveness María hadn’t intended to reveal but didn’t bother disguising either.

Inspector Reiko Tezuka took her hand without hesitation. Her grip was firm, dry, and no-nonsense. It wasn’t a greeting—it was an assessment, and María felt it immediately.

“Oh, you're spicy,” Reiko said smoothly, her voice low, the kind of tone that always carried just far enough. “I like you.”

Drake winced, sliding further into his chair like a man hoping the tablecloth might swallow him whole.

Reiko’s gaze cut to him, and she tilted her head ever so slightly, the corner of her beak lifting in something that was half amusement, half reminder,

“You always did fall for a pretty thing in a badge, didn’t you, Drake?”

María felt her pulse jump, heat flushing through her veins in a way that was equal parts pride and irritation. She didn’t rise to the bait—didn’t need to—but her eyes narrowed slightly as she took another sip of her drink, never breaking eye contact with the crow.

Reiko let the silence linger just long enough before leaning back, folding her trench coat neatly across her lap. Her smirk softened into something that might have been conciliatory if it wasn’t so perfectly controlled.

“Don’t worry, Detective. I’m not here to stir up old ghosts or wedge myself between you and the infamous Darkwing.” Her tone teased on Drake’s moniker, like she couldn’t quite help herself. “I’m just here to catch up with old comrades… and to pay my respects.”

With that, she lifted a hand to flag the bartender and ordered a whiskey neat like she’d been here a thousand times before. Her composure was maddeningly smooth, her presence effortless. She wasn’t just fitting into the circle—she was commanding it.

Drake, meanwhile, was practically a puddle in his seat. His bill twitched, his fingers picked at the folded edge of a nearby napkin, and he kept his eyes fixed on the table as though he could will himself invisible.

María leaned close, close enough that her perfume brushed against his feathers, close enough that only he would hear her. Her whisper was velvet, but it carried the kind of authority that made suspects confess before she’d even sat them in the box.

“You. Me. We are having some words tonight.”

Drake’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his eyes darting sideways toward her without daring to move his head.

“…yes, dear.”

María leaned back in her chair, expression cool and controlled even as her chest thrummed with irritation and—she admitted privately—a flicker of insecurity she despised acknowledging. She hadn’t expected to walk into this. An ex was one thing. An ex who was sharp, self-assured, and clearly still knew how to get under Drake’s skin? That was something else entirely.

The night wore on. Glasses clinked, the low jazz of the hotel lounge meandered in the background, and the old stories kept coming—tales of rooftop battles, sewer chases, exploding lairs, and villains who were as absurd as they were dangerous. María sipped her drink, half-amused, half-fascinated. Somewhere between Fenton’s overlong tangent about “calibrating neural interfaces in mid-combat” and Joey’s confused retelling of a battle with a giant turnip monster, she realized her initial jealousy was starting to melt away.

Reiko wasn’t… awful. Quite the opposite. The inspector had a sharp wit, a sharper eye, and beneath the trench coat and cynical remarks, María recognized something familiar: another cop who’d seen too much, but still stood tall. By the time the clock ticked toward eleven, María and Reiko were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, trading war stories like old friends.

“…So then I cuffed him, but the idiot was still half-naked, and my rookie trips over his pants and eats ass, just lands right between the perp's cheeks!” Reiko was saying with a smirk.

María cackled, nearly spilling her glass. “Oh, honey, try wrangling a perp who’s been pepper-sprayed in the junk. He was hopping around like a pogo stick, and I had to drag him in by the cuffs. Do you know how undignified it is to walk a grown man three blocks like he’s a busted shopping cart?”

The two burst into laughter. Drake tried to sink lower in his chair.

“Come on, Drake,” Reiko grinned slyly, “don’t act like you haven’t been hauled home half-naked before.”

María’s eyes lit up. “Now that sounds like a story.”

“Oh, I could tell you plenty,” Reiko purred, sipping her third whiskey. “He snores like a chainsaw, drools like a faucet, and he does this thing with his tongue that—”

“Reiko!” Drake squawked, face burning red.

María leaned in, eyes sparkling with devilish glee. “Please, do continue. I want to know all his… quirks.”

Reiko smirked. “Let’s just say his stamina in a fight isn’t always what it is in the bedroom.”

María wheezed, slapping the table as laughter bubbled out of her. Drake buried his face in his hands.

Beside him, Fenton leaned over, whispering dryly: “And this is why I never dated anyone in our circle. Too many shared notes.”

“I hate my life,” Drake muttered into his palms.

When he finally resurfaced, cheeks pink and dignity shredded, he tried to retake control. “Ahem! Alright, that’s enough. Long day tomorrow, we should all—uh—call it a night.”

Two voices instantly booed him. Actually booed him.

“Boooooo!” María and Reiko chorused, throwing crumpled napkins at him. “Where’s your sense of fun, Darkwing?” Reiko added in.

Drake sagged. “The bar’s closing soon anyway.”

“Sure,” Reiko said with a sly smile, swirling the ice in her glass. “This bar’s closing. But it’s Friday night in St. Canard, sweetheart. I know a place down the block—a dance club.”

María raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I like that idea!”

Joey perked up instantly, his hand shooting into the air like a kid at recess. “I like dancing!”

“Shut up, Joey,” Drake grumbled.

But then, to his horror, Fenton goddamn nodded. “No, no, they’re right. We only get together once a year. Why not? Let’s make a night of it. It’s been ages since I cut a rug.”

María arched a brow at him, smirking. “Cut a rug? Did you pack your platform shoes too, grandpa?”

Even Neptunia cracked a small, fishy snort.

Reiko stood smoothly, pushing her chair back. “Alright, but before we go mix it up with people half our age, I need to freshen up. You coming, María?”

María hopped to her feet without hesitation. “You betcha. Gotta powder my beak.”

Reiko glanced at Neptunia, one brow arched.

The fish-woman rolled her eyes, fins twitching with impatience. “Don’t even. I don’t do girl talk.”

“Suit yourself,” Reiko shrugged, then motioned for María. The two disappeared in the direction of the restroom, laughter trailing after them.

At the table, Drake sat frozen, staring into his drink like it had personally betrayed him. He couldn’t decide which was worse: that they were bonding… or that they were bonding over him.

Fenton patted his shoulder sympathetically. “Hey, look on the bright side. At least they’re not pulling hair and throwing punches, right?”

Drake groaned. “Don’t give them ideas…”

The restroom was quieter than the bar, the muffled jazz leaking through the door as María and Reiko slipped inside. A row of mirrors reflected the soft glow of the overhead lights, the air faintly perfumed with soap and expensive hand lotion.

Reiko washed her face and looked into the mirror, running her fingers through her cropped, black hair. She glanced sidelong at María, a grin tugging at her beak. “So,” she said, leaning against the sink, “you and Drake, huh? Didn’t think he’d ever let someone close enough to actually use his first name.”

María smirked as she reapplied her lipstick. “Yeah, well, he didn’t make it easy. He’s stubborn, self-righteous, and drives me crazy half the time. But…” she paused, eyes softening, “…he’s got a good heart. And I like a challenge.”

Reiko chuckled, low and throaty. “That sounds like the Drake I remember.” She tilted her head, sharp eyes gleaming. “And a cop too. Guess old habits die hard.”

María snapped her lipstick shut, turned, and leaned against the counter beside her. “And what about you, Inspector? Still carrying a torch?”

Reiko smirked, taking her time before answering. She crossed one leg over the other, feathers sleek beneath the edge of her coat. “Let’s just say… I’ve moved on. But I can still appreciate what we had.” She looked María up and down, bold and unapologetic. “And I can appreciate what he has now.”

María laughed, a warm, throaty sound. “Careful, Inspector. You keep looking at me like that, and Drake’s going to have more than just old memories to be embarrassed about tonight.”

Reiko leaned in just slightly, close enough that María could smell the faint trace of whiskey on her breath. “Embarrassed? Oh, sweetheart, you haven’t seen embarrassed until you’ve dragged him out of a villain’s hideout with his cape singed and his ego in tatters. That man lives to be humiliated.”

María giggled, covering her beak with her hand before lowering it, eyes glittering. “You’re terrible. And you know what? I think I like you.”

Reiko’s grin widened, predatory and teasing all at once. “The feeling’s mutual, Detective Cabrera.”

The two women lingered there for a beat too long, laughter softening into a charged silence. María found herself wondering—just briefly—how far this odd camaraderie might go, how Drake would react if he walked in and saw his ex and his girlfriend laughing, leaning into each other, maybe sharing a little more than words.

Reiko seemed to sense it too. She straightened, adjusted her coat, but not before brushing her wing lightly, deliberately against María’s arm. “Come on. If we stay in here any longer, Drake’s going to imagine we’re plotting his funeral.”

María smirked, following her toward the door. “Oh, I’m sure he’s imagining a lot worse right now.”

They both laughed as they stepped back into the bar, side by side, closer now than when they’d entered.

Drake sat slouched in his chair, arms crossed and bill tight as his friends continued swapping old war stories. He tried to focus, to laugh along, but his mind kept circling back to the fact that María and Reiko had been in the restroom together for what felt like an eternity. Long enough for conspiracies. Long enough for him to sweat.

When the door finally swung open, his feathers prickled instantly.

María and Reiko emerged side by side, laughter bubbling from them as though they’d been friends for years. Reiko’s hand rested casually, almost possessively, on María’s hip, and María—María of all people—was leaning into it, cheeks warm with drink, eyes sparkling like she’d just uncovered some delicious secret.

Drake’s bill dropped open. Fenton and Joey mirrored him with equally dumbstruck expressions. Even Neptunia raised a scaly brow, muttering, “Well, it seems as though they're comfortable with each other.”

They crossed the room like co-conspirators, heads bent toward one another, grinning like cats who had raided the cream. Whatever had happened in that restroom, Drake was sure he wasn’t going to like it.

Reiko reached the table first, plucking her trench coat off the back of her chair. She swept her sharp eyes across the three men staring at her like stunned goldfish and let a sly grin curl across her beak.

“So,” she said smoothly, slipping her coat on, “who’s going to call a taxi?"

Chapter Text

Chapter Three: Time of Your Life

The club’s sign blazed down at them in hot pink neon, letters vibrating with the bass that leaked out into the street: THE PULSE. The line outside was a living thing—young people pressed together in tiny skirts and open shirts, perfume and cigarette smoke mixing in the night air. Laughter, shouting, the click of heels against pavement—it was enough to make Drake want to turn right back around.

Reiko, of course, had other plans.

She marched up to the pitbull at the velvet rope, badge flashing in the colored glow. “Board of Health,” she said flatly, jerking a thumb at the group behind her. “Surprise inspection. They’re my assistants.”

The pitbull gave them all a once-over. María, in her slacks, blouse, and hair all done up, could’ve passed as a fed, sure. But the others? Drake in his shirt and tie, sleeves rolled up, looking like a dad who’d wandered off from a PTA meeting, Neptunia scowling from inside her hood, Joey already hiccuping, and Fenton—God bless him—adjusting his pocket protector like he was about to deliver a dissertation.

The pitbull’s lip curled. Then he sighed, muttered “Not paid enough for this,” and lifted the rope.

María threw her head back in laughter as they slipped inside. “God, I adore you,” she shouted over the thump of the bass, linking her arm with Reiko’s.

And then the club swallowed them whole.

The Pulse was alive—no, it was carnal. The music hit them like a physical blow, bass shaking through the floor and up their spines. Lights stuttered across the crowd in violent bursts—searing blue, bloody crimson, the white-hot flare of strobes that froze bodies mid-grind. The dance floor was a single, sweating organism: hundreds of young bodies pressed skin-to-skin, every sway and thrust dripping with sex and abandon.

It was heat, salt, spilled liquor. The reek of cologne clung to the air, tangled with cheap perfume and the unmistakable musk of sweat. Every brush against a stranger was slick and sticky. Breath came hot against ears, laughter dissolved into moans, and hands strayed shamelessly.

Fenton’s jaw fell open as his eyes landed on two girls at the edge of the floor, kissing like they were starving for each other, one’s hand up the other’s shirt without a shred of shame.

He stumbled and nearly walked into a bouncer.

Meanwhile, María and Reiko were in their element. They carved through the crowd with a sway of their hips, the sea parting for them as though pulled by gravity. At the bar, neon shots were lined up like candy, glowing green and electric blue. They each grabbed one, clinked glasses, and downed them in a single toss, laughing as the burn hit. The music caught them immediately—María rolling her hips to the beat, Reiko spinning her in a half-dance before pulling her flush against her side.

The two of them shimmered under the strobe light, feathers and hair glistening with sweat already. They leaned into each other, mouths brushing ears as they shouted over the pounding music, laughing too loud, too close, touching without hesitation. Reiko’s hand stayed snug around María’s waist, fingers splayed against the curve of her hip. María didn’t mind—if anything, she leaned back into it, her smile sharp and wicked as she flicked her eyes toward Drake.

Drake, meanwhile, looked like a man dragged into a fever dream.

The air was suffocating. His shirt clung uncomfortably to his feathers as someone brushed past him, damp and half-naked. Every breath tasted of alcohol and heat. His head throbbed with the bass, vision swimming in the chaotic lights. He wanted out.

Neptunia kept her hood low, jaw tight, muttering curses about “sweaty mammals” while batting away hands that came too close. Joey looked around wild-eyed, grinning like a kid at Christmas. “So let me get this straight,” he yelled over the music, leaning into Drake’s ear. “We’re in a box packed with drunk, horny people, no space, no air, no escape routes—” He smirked. “Yeah, no way I’ll lose my temper here.”

Drake let out a groan, massaging his temple as another sweaty twenty-something stumbled into him. “This is my Hell.”

The first round of drinks had gone down like medicine—burning, bitter, and unwelcome. Drake muttered about noise violations and public indecency while trying not to breathe in the press of sweat and cologne. But three drinks later? He wasn’t exactly comfortable, but the edges of his misery had softened. His shirt was untucked, his tie was loosened, and for once, he wasn’t obsessing over the exits.

At the table, Neptunia sat rigid, her hood still shadowing her face as she sipped plain water with the solemnity of a priestess. Fenton, on the other hand, leaned forward like a teenager in heat, eyes darting across the club, zeroing in on every sway of hips and bare midriff. Drake gave him a look, but the duck just shrugged, unapologetic.

And then there was Joey.

Drake’s eyes widened. Somehow—somehow—the loon had stripped off his shirt and was in the middle of the dance floor, a whistle clenched in his beak like he was coaching an invisible team. He was doing the robot. Badly. Sweat slicked down his feathers as he jerked and popped in jagged movements, each one more ridiculous than the last, swinging glowsticks that left tracers in the air. Drake cringed. And yet—like moths to a neon flame—the younger dancers cheered him on, circling him, clapping in rhythm. A girl in a glittery halter top slapped his ass, laughing as Joey let out a piercing blow of the whistle and moonwalked two steps before collapsing into a windmill spin.

Drake buried his face in his hands. “I am never going to unsee that.”

But when he looked up again, Joey’s antics evaporated from his mind like smoke.

Because he saw them.

María and Reiko weren’t just dancing—they were devouring the floor. Heat rolled off them as their bodies moved with the music, slow when the beat dipped, sharp and rolling when it hit. María’s blouse clung to her, the top buttons undone just enough to show a scandalous line of cleavage. Reiko pressed in against her, one hand on María’s hip, guiding her like they’d rehearsed this a thousand times. Their hips rolled together, perfectly in sync, feathers brushing, bodies grinding.

Every so often, they broke the spell just long enough to flick their eyes across the club—to him.

And God help him, those looks were lethal.

María’s gaze lingered low, her lips curving in a smirk as her hips rolled back against Reiko’s thigh. Reiko’s eyes glinted with mischief, tongue teasing the corner of her beak before leaning close enough that her lips nearly brushed María’s feathers. Their laughter was swallowed by the bass, but the intent was clear, scorching.

Drake swallowed hard. His collar felt too tight. His hands itched for something to do. Sirens, he thought wildly. They weren’t women tonight—they were sirens, dragging him toward the rocks with every sway, every teasing glance. Neptunia should’ve been the one with that kind of myth about her, but no—this was María and Reiko’s song.

It was hot. Too hot. He felt the burn crawl up the back of his neck, spreading across his chest. He couldn’t look away. He didn’t want to look away.

Beside him, Fenton leaned back in his chair, catching the whole scene with the grin of a man watching the world’s most entertaining play unfold. He didn’t even bother to hide his smirk as his eyes darted between Drake and the dance floor. Then, without a word, he extended his fist.

Drake stared at it, mouth open. For one long moment, he looked ready to argue, deny, protest. But then his eyes flicked back to María and Reiko, their bodies sliding together like sin made flesh.

His fist met Fenton’s with a quiet thunk.

Drake pushed his chair back so suddenly that it scraped loudly against the sticky floor. Neptunia glanced up, and Fenton’s smirk faltered. Drake didn’t explain himself—he just tugged at his tie, straightened his shirt, and said loud enough to be heard over the thundering bass:

“I’ll be back.”

The music shifted, the DJ mixing into something sexier, hotter—a low, pulsing beat that rolled through the crowd like a current. Bodies moved with it, slower now, sharper, every throb of bass a heartbeat. Drake moved through the crowd with surprising ease, slipping between dancers, his presence cutting through like a shadow in the strobe.

María saw him first. Her smirk widened, teeth flashing under the lights. Reiko’s brow arched, her body still rolling against María’s, but her eyes locked on him like a challenge.

And then he was there.

Drake didn’t hesitate. He slid in behind María, his hand finding her hip like it had always belonged there, pulling her back against him in time with the music. María laughed—low, throaty, delighted—and pressed into him, her body moving with his instantly, seamlessly.

Reiko wasn’t about to be outdone. She stepped closer, her hands rising to Drake’s shoulders, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt, dragging lightly down his chest as she rolled her body in against his front. Suddenly he was between them—María at his back, Reiko at his chest, their movements perfectly synced, a rhythm he didn’t have to think about.

The three of them moved as one.

Hips grinding, feathers brushing, heat pooling in every space their bodies touched. María’s hand slid from his hip up to his chest, fingers tracing the loosened tie before tugging it just enough to make him stumble closer. Reiko laughed, her lips dangerously close to his ear as she leaned in, whispering something lost under the bass but sending a shiver racing down his spine.

They circled him, swapped sides, played tug-of-war with his attention. María pressed close, her blouse clinging, her breath hot on his neck. Reiko countered, her hand on his waist, her eyes daring him to keep up. Drake didn’t flounder—he flowed with them, sharp when they were sharp, smooth when they melted into the bass, his movements confident, magnetic.

For once, Drake Mallard wasn’t the awkward, fussy man at the table. He was smooth.

Around them, the crowd cheered at the sight. A trio of older dancers burning up the floor with a heat that outshone anyone half their age.

At their table, Neptunia’s hood slipped back as her mouth fell open in disbelief. Fenton, equally stunned, grabbed her arm, his eyes bugging out. “...What the actual hell are we watching?”

Neither could answer, because at that moment María and Reiko pressed in tighter, their hands brushing over Drake’s arms, down his sides, feathers mingling as the three of them moved like they were bound together. No words. Just rhythm. Just heat.

And Drake—Drake was loving it.

The bass climbed toward its peak, each pulse slamming through their bodies until it felt like they weren’t even moving to music anymore—they were the music. Drake was already drenched in sweat, María’s blouse undone to the point where each sway threatened to reveal too much, and Reiko’s every movement sharp, predatory, intoxicating.

The drop hit—hard.

They went with it, hips colliding, bodies grinding with reckless abandon. Drake’s hand slid over María’s waist as Reiko pressed up against his chest, and for a moment, he thought this was the height of it—the hottest, most surreal night of his life.

But then the women exchanged a look.

It was brief, a flash of mischief and decision, their eyes meeting like conspirators in a dangerous game. And then, as the beat pounded through the floor, María and Reiko turned their faces toward each other and kissed.

Drake froze. His eyes nearly popped out of his skull, his heart stopping, then slamming into double time.

It wasn’t a shy peck. It was slow, lingering, open-mouthed—María’s hand sliding up to cradle the back of Reiko’s neck as Reiko’s fingers curled into María’s blouse. Their bodies pressed together, tongues teasing, lips wet and hungry under the strobe lights. The heat between them was palpable, the kind of sight Drake had only dared dream about, and now it was right in front of him—real, erotic, breathtaking.

When they finally broke apart, both were flushed, lips shining, eyes blazing with heat. And they didn’t hesitate.

María slid up first, looping an arm around Drake’s neck and kissing him full on the beak. It was bold, passionate, stealing the breath right out of his lungs as her tongue teased against his, her body pressing hard against him. Before he could even recover, Reiko pulled him from María and claimed his mouth next. Her kiss was different—slower, deeper, every drag of her lips promising more. Her hand gripped his tie, tugging him down into it, her breath hot and intoxicating.

Drake melted. He wasn’t middle-aged, wasn’t sore, wasn’t tired—he was thirty again. Hell, twenty. His whole body buzzed with adrenaline and arousal, the taste of both women still lingering on his lips when Reiko finally let him go.

The music shifted then, the DJ spinning into a lighter, poppy track. The energy around them lightened, but the three of them stood frozen in their own little storm, panting, their eyes darting between one another. There was no jealousy, no hesitation—just hunger, curiosity, and the undeniable charge of something that had gone way past innocent dancing.

Drake finally swallowed, his throat dry, and leaned in enough to be heard over the noise. “...Gonna head outside for a breather.”

Neither argued. Both María and Reiko just nodded, wordless, breathless, still glowing from the heat of the moment.

Joey continued to dance by himself.

Together, the three of them pushed their way off the floor, through the press of bodies, and out into the cold night air of the patio. The shock of it hit like ice, steam rising from their feathers as they stepped into the crowd of younger clubbers smoking, flirting, and laughing in the February air. None of it mattered.

Because the fire between them wasn’t going out anytime soon.

They found a patio table tucked away in the corner, mercifully out of the thick crowd of smokers and chatter. The air was sharp with cold, the kind that kissed damp feathers and raised goosebumps, but after the furnace of the dance floor it felt almost divine. A string of dim bulbs overhead cast everything in a golden glow, the light catching in María’s undone blouse, in Reiko’s sharp grin, in the sheen of sweat still clinging to Drake’s neck.

Reiko dug into her tiny clutch and came up with a battered pack of cigarettes. She tapped one out with a flick of her wrist, placed it between her beak, and lit up. She inhaled, exhaled slow, the smoke curling like a ribbon in the frosty air.

Drake raised his hand, motioning. “Toss me one.”

Reiko’s brow arched, but she slid the pack across the table. María, already slouched in her chair with a flushed, lazy smile, cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Since when do you smoke, Señor Takes-The-Skin-Off-His-Chicken?” she teased, her Spanish accent slipping thicker in her drunken playfulness.

Drake smirked as he plucked a cigarette, took Reiko’s lighter when she offered it, and lit up with a deep drag. He let the smoke out in a slow plume before answering, voice rough but amused. “Hey—if you two are going to let loose, then so am I.”

The three chuckled together, the kind of laughter that came loose and easy after too much alcohol and too much heat. Their knees brushed beneath the table, their hands occasionally grazing—lingering just long enough to make the air tighter than the smoke already did.

Reiko plucked her lighter back and tucked it into her clutch, leaning forward conspiratorially, her voice dropping. “Well… this evening didn’t exactly turn out the way I thought.” Another drag, another swirl of smoke leaving her lips. “Figured we’d all be in our separate beds by ten, after taking children’s aspirin for our aging hearts and preparing for the hangovers of doom.”

That earned another round of laughter, soft but full of electricity. María leaned back, her eyes glimmering, lips curving as she let her accent come through stronger than usual. “¿Así que asumes que no dormiremos en camas separadas, Inspectora? You’re bold.”

Reiko tilted her head, only half understanding what María said, and instead of replying right away, let it fall gently onto María’s shoulder. The gesture was easy, almost casual, but the intimacy of it was unmistakable. Her smile curled slow and dangerous. “Unless Old Man Mallard here decides to put the kibosh on our fun.”

Drake rolled his eyes, blowing smoke through his beak as he slouched back in his chair. “You make it sound like I’m a hundred years old. Besides, it’s you two who should be worried about me.”

Reiko cackled, smoke breaking in her laugh, while María nearly doubled over against her, laughing too hard to keep straight. María pressed her forehead briefly against Reiko’s hair, tears at the corner of her eyes. “Careful, papi,” she slurred with a grin, wagging a finger in his direction. “The dynamic duo over here might make you break a hip.”

The table shook with their laughter. But under the joking, under the warmth, there was an undeniable charge—the way Reiko’s head stayed pressed against María’s shoulder, the way María’s hand drifted onto Reiko’s thigh and didn’t leave, the way Drake’s eyes kept flicking down to both of them even as he drank in their curves, their subtle movements, a touch here, a graze there.

Heat. Need. Hormones.

A type of danger that Drake Mallard wasn't sure how he was going to handle.

By the time the 'ugly lights' came on, the club looked like a battlefield. The pounding bass cut off mid-beat, leaving only the hum of fluorescents buzzing overhead. The sea of bodies dissolved into stragglers and drunks, stumbling for coats, for purses, for whatever dignity they still had left. Makeup streaked, shirts untucked, one girl tottering barefoot with her heels in her hands. The smell of sweat and spilled booze clung to everything.

Drake shuffled out with his group, María draped across his left arm, Reiko across his right. Both women leaned into him, warm, tipsy, glowing from drink and sweat and something more. Drake’s shirt was half-untucked, his tie askew, but he didn’t care. María’s laughter bubbled into his ear in a rush of Spanish—sweet, dirty little promises that made his cheeks heat beneath his feathers. Reiko, for her part, smirked like she already knew every word being whispered.

Behind them, Joey was still bobbing his head, lips mouthing lyrics to a song that had long since stopped playing. His tracksuit jacket flapped open, his chest feathered and glistening with sweat. Neptunia trailed behind him, her hood still up, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the chaos. She looked as though she regretted stepping within a hundred yards of the club in the first place.

Fenton was last, clapping his hands together, too loudly, like the responsible one trying to rally the group. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m feeling waffles. Who wants to hit up the diner?”

Joey shot his hand up, still grooving. “Waffles!”

Neptunia groaned, rubbing her temples. “I could eat.”

But the other trio didn't even pay him any mind. María nuzzled against Drake's shoulder, her voice a sultry purr, words slipping in rapid-fire Spanish that made his knees feel weaker than the whiskey had. Reiko chuckled low, brushing her hand down his sleeve with just enough pressure to make it clear she wasn’t letting him go anytime soon.

“D.W.? Waffles?” Fenton prompted again, tilting his head expectantly.

Drake blinked, snapped back to reality, then quickly shook his head. “Uh, maybe next time. We’ve got a long day tomorrow. I should, uh—get some sleep.”

The way María laughed at that, soft and wicked, and the way Reiko hummed knowingly against his arm made it clear to everyone within earshot: 'sleep' was not what awaited him.

Drake straightened, tugging them both a little closer, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his bill. “Shall we get a cab, girls?”

Reiko shook her head, the cool night air puffing from her beak in smoke. “Hotel’s only a couple blocks. Walk’ll do us good.”

María nodded, her dark eyes glittering as she turned toward the others. “It was nice meeting you all—Fenton, Joey, Neptunia. But, ah… I think we’re calling it a night.”

Fenton gave a helpless smile, flicking his eyes toward Drake as the trio peeled away down the lamplit street. Joey shrugged, still dancing in place. Neptunia just rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath.

Fenton sighed, watching Drake disappear into the night with two women clinging to him like he was the last dance of the evening. “How does he do it? I mean, why can't I bring home two gorgeous women?”

Neptunia didn’t even pause. “Because. You're a fucking nerd.”

Drake, María, and Reiko strolled through the snow-dusted streets of St. Canard, neon signs buzzing and reflecting off wet pavement, the city’s art deco towers looming overhead like silent sentinels. The snow was thick but light, drifting lazily down, softening the grime and graffiti of the blocks they passed.

María looped her arm through Drake’s, tugging him close as she teased, “Careful, viejo, you’re walking like you’re already out of breath.”

“Out of breath?” Drake scoffed, feigning indignation. “I could outpace both of you in heels.”

Reiko snorted, blowing smoke from her latest drag of the cigarette. “You? In heels? I’d pay good money to see that.”

María smirked and leaned across Drake toward Reiko. “You’d be surprised what he looks good in.”

Drake’s feathers flushed, and he muttered, “I’m right here, you know.”

The women laughed, their voices carrying easily in the quiet of the street. But as Drake tilted his head back, trying to catch snowflakes on his bill like a boy again, something in the corner of his eye snagged his attention. A shape. Then two. Then more.

His shoulders tightened. The reflection in a neon diner sign gave him the rest of the picture—figures in leather jackets, boots crunching in rhythm with their own steps. Each jacket was painted with the same mark: a golden ankh, glinting like a dare in the streetlight.

Drake’s voice dropped low, barely audible under the distant rumble of the city. “On our six o’clock.”

Reiko didn’t miss a beat. She flicked her cigarette into the gutter and exhaled smoke. “Yeah. I spotted them half a block back.” Her voice was calm, almost bored, like she’d been expecting this all night. “The Pharaohs. Local gang. Since you bailed on this city, Darkwing, they’ve spread like weeds. Violence is through the roof.”

María glanced back over her shoulder, her brow arched. She counted quickly. “Only eight of them, huh?”

Drake caught the edge in her tone and chuckled, shaking his head. “I know that voice. I know exactly what you’re thinking.”

“Good,” she said simply, her accent curling around the word.

“Any of you armed?” he asked, loosening his tie, rolling up his sleeves as though he were about to crunch numbers instead of bones.

Reiko pulled back her coat just enough to show a sleek collapsible baton tucked at her hip. “Armed enough.”

María, without hesitation, lifted her pant leg to reveal a pistol strapped to her ankle holster. “.380. Nice and tidy.”

Drake flexed his hands, fingers cracking at the knuckles. His grin spread, sharp and cocksure. “Me? I was trained by Goose Lee. I’ll be fine. But no guns.”

That made both women smirk knowingly—María shaking her head, Reiko muttering something in Japanese under her breath.

Then Drake did what came naturally. He steered them down a narrow side alley, shadows closing in, the buzz of neon vanishing behind them. A perfect funnel. The Pharaohs followed, boots scuffing, voices low, like hyenas who thought they’d cornered prey.

But Drake’s smile only widened. The night wasn’t over yet.

The alley was a canyon of brick and shadow, the ground slick with half-melted snow and littered with broken bottles, old newspapers, and overturned trash cans that stank of rot. A single flickering lightbulb buzzed high above, casting the three figures at the dead end in jagged, stuttering light.

But Drake Mallard wasn’t cornered. Not tonight.

Eight shadows stretched long as the Pharaohs entered the alley, boots crunching glass, leather jackets gleaming under the weak light. Their aesthetic was halfway between a bad history lesson and a street gang from a bygone decade—slick pompadours, chains wrapped around waists, heavy boots—and every jacket was emblazoned with the same golden ankh, shining defiantly.

Drake’s eyes swept the opposition with the precision of a detective and the instincts of a fighter. He spotted the one twirling a chain like a predator testing its leash. Another hefted a baseball bat, tapping it against his palm in rhythm with their march.

And then there was the mastiff.

The brute stepped forward, hulking broad shoulders wrapped in cracked leather, the golden ankh emblazoned larger on his back than anyone else’s. His jowls twitched with amusement as he looked Drake and the women up and down. His smirk was slow, indulgent, like a king inspecting unworthy subjects. When he spoke, his voice was a bizarre, unsettling fusion—half Shakespearean soliloquy, half East Coast street snarl.

“Well, well, what have we here? Strangers in my little kingdom. Trespassers wandering into the sanctum of the Pharaohs without tribute, without coin, without fear. Dost thou not know the price of such folly?” He raised a finger, wagging it theatrically, his vowels long and florid even as his consonants cracked like asphalt. “This here is my turf, sweet doves. And the Duke—” he puffed out his chest, thumping a paw against it with a thud “—collects what he is owed.”

He leaned forward, lips curling, the accent shifting rougher, nastier. “So tell me—what’s it gonna be? Your wallets, your jewels… or your bones?”

Drake didn’t reply. Neither did María nor Reiko. The three simply stood there in the harsh stutter of the overhead light, letting the sound of dripping water and the low rattle of the gang fill the silence.

Drake loosened the knot of his black tie with one hand, pulling it free and looping it around his fist in a practiced motion, the silk winding taut around his knuckles. He didn’t look at The Duke—his eyes were locked on the bat, the chain, the way their weight shifted, the order of who would strike first.

Beside him, Reiko calmly slid a hand into her coat pocket and snapped her collapsible baton out with a metallic crack that echoed off the walls. She twirled it once, her grin feral under the shadows.

María slid into a boxer’s stance, grinning like a madwoman. Her fists lifted, her chin tucked, and her dark eyes burned with a fire that said she’d been waiting for a night like this.

The Duke let out a booming laugh, the sound bouncing off the brick walls like mock applause. “Ohhh, brave little lambs! You wouldst bare thy teeth at lions? You fancy yourselves warriors, do ya? So be it.”

His smirk sharpened into a snarl. He spread his arms wide, like a performer inviting the curtain to rise. “If it is battle thou cravest—then battle thou shalt have. And mark my words, ye shall regret the day ye spat in the face of the Pharaohs!”

The gang closed in, the air growing taut, seconds stretching like hours. Drake cracked his neck, Reiko tightened her grip, and María’s fists twitched with anticipation.

The Duke dropped his hand.

The Pharaohs attacked.

The Pharaoh with the chain reached Reiko first, the metal links whistling through the air like a serpent uncoiled. Reiko moved before it even reached her—fast, fluid, instinctive. She slipped under the arc, her baton snapping up to catch his wrist with a sickening crack. The man howled, the chain clattering to the ground as his hand bent at an angle it was never meant to.

The second Pharaoh lunged in from her blindside, but Reiko spun with the momentum, her baton flashing like lightning in the dim light. She drove the steel tip into his ribs, a sharp, thunk that knocked the wind from his lungs. He folded, wheezing, clutching his side—only to eat the full swing of her baton across the jaw. The crack of bone meeting steel was sharp and final; he went down like a sack of bricks, blood speckling the snow-damp concrete.

The chain-wielder, still clutching his ruined wrist, came back with his other hand balled into a fist. He charged, a roar of pain and rage bursting from him, but Reiko didn’t retreat. She stepped into him, ducking low, baton raised high, and brought it down across his knee with all her weight behind it. The crunch was audible, a wet, snapping pop that sent him crashing onto one leg, screaming.

Reiko didn’t give him time to recover. She pivoted, baton whipping around in a brutal horizontal arc. It smashed into the side of his temple with a dull, bone-deep thud. His body jerked once, eyes rolling back, then dropped flat to the ground beside the chain.

She stood over both men, chest rising and falling in controlled breaths, her weapon gleaming under the stuttering alley light. She rolled her wrist, baton still humming from the violence, and smirked.

Two down.

Six to go.

The moment Reiko dropped her second opponent, two more Pharaohs tried to circle María. One had a length of pipe, the other nothing but brass knuckles glinting under the alley light. They moved in tandem, cocky, like they thought they had her penned.

María loosened her shoulders, bouncing lightly on her heels, hands up in a tight boxer’s guard. “Come on, cabrones,” she muttered under her breath, her accent thickening with adrenaline.

The brass knuckles came first, a wild swing aimed at her jaw. She slipped it with the grace of someone who’d done this in gyms and dirty alleys before. Her counter was a sharp, compact one-two: left jab to the nose, right hook to the ribs. Bone crunched, and the thug staggered back, spitting blood, clutching his side.

The one with the pipe roared and swung downward. María stepped inside the arc, so close she smelled the stale beer on his breath, and trapped his arm against her chest. In one fluid movement, she twisted his wrist and dropped her weight, wrenching his shoulder past its limit. The sickening pop of a dislocated joint filled the alley. He shrieked, the pipe clattering uselessly to the pavement.

But María wasn’t finished. Still holding his ruined arm, she pivoted and threw him—hip to hip, the way her police instructors drilled it into her. He slammed onto his back with a grunt that emptied his lungs, leaving him writhing in trash water and snow.

The brass-knuckle thug had recovered enough to charge again, fury overriding caution. María pivoted, dropped low, and caught his arm mid-swing. In a blink, she hooked it, twisted, and snapped—a clean arm lock, the joint giving way like dry wood. He howled, dropping to his knees, only for her boot to slam into his chest, sending him sprawling flat on the cold pavement beside his buddy.

María exhaled sharply through her nose, shaking the sting from her knuckles. Efficient. No wasted movement. Both thugs groaning on the ground, nursing broken bones and battered pride.

She shot a glance at Reiko, who was already smirking, baton twirling lazily, and then at Drake.

Four to go.

Three more Pharaohs closed in, surrounding Drake like wolves. Their weapons rattled, their boots crunched over snow and trash. But Drake didn’t look worried. He loosened the tie from around his fist, let it dangle from his hand like a sash in a kung fu film. His shoulders rolled back, his eyes narrowed. He wasn’t Drake Mallard, the tired dad anymore.

He was Darkwing Duck.

And these punks were about to find out why he was the best.

The first one lunged, swinging a bat. Drake slid forward, sidestepping the swing. His tie whipped up in a blur, looping around the thug’s wrist, and with a sharp twist, he yanked the man off-balance. A knee drove up into the thug’s stomach with a crunch, folding him in half. Before the man could recover, Drake spun the tie around his trapped wrist again, locking it tight, and snapped his elbow down across the arm. The sound of bone breaking was sharp, almost clean. The bat clattered to the pavement.

Another thug came from behind, reaching with a knife. Drake didn’t even turn his head. He shifted his weight, pivoted on his heel, and snapped a back-kick straight into the man’s thigh. The thug howled, his leg buckling. Drake whipped the tie free from the first man, let the limp silk swirl in the air, then used it like a lasso—looping it around the knife-wielder’s arm mid-stab, twisting, trapping it. With his other hand, he hammered three lightning-fast punches into the man’s ribs, each strike punctuated by a grunt of breath. When the man sagged forward, Drake pulled him down by the tied arm and cracked a rising knee into his face. Blood sprayed across the snow.

The third thug thought he saw an opening and rushed in, aiming low for a tackle. Drake met him head-on. He hooked the man’s neck with the tie, spun, and used his own momentum to hurl him across the alley in a brutal judo-style throw. The man’s back slammed against a dumpster so hard it echoed.

But Drake didn’t stop. He flowed between them with a mixture of precision and flair, every movement equal parts martial discipline and theatrical flourish. He dragged the knife-wielder back up by the tie, spun him around as a shield when the bat-wielder tried to limp forward, then booted them both into the wall with a spinning kick that cracked skulls together. Both slid down in a heap.

The third tried to crawl away. Drake closed the distance in three calm strides, crouched, and snapped the tie around the man’s neck—not tight enough to choke, but enough to pull him back. A swift elbow to the temple dropped him unconscious, the silk sliding free in Drake’s hands. He coiled it loosely and draped it back around his shoulders, as if he’d just finished adjusting his outfit after a business meeting.

The alley went quiet except for the groans of broken men. Snowflakes drifted down, catching in Drake’s feathers, but he stood tall, chest heaving, stance loose and dangerous.

The Duke hadn’t moved. His broad frame filled the far end of the alley, arms crossed, smirk fading into a scowl as he watched his men get dismantled.

“Exquisite,” The Duke intoned, “A ballet of brutality! Thou hast turned silken finery into shackles and scythes. But mark me—every performance must end, and this stage belongs to The Duke.”

Drake smirked back, flexing his fingers. “Then let’s see if your bark matches your monologue.”

The alley was littered with groaning Pharaohs, clutching broken bones and split lips as they limped, crawled, or staggered back the way they’d come.

Drake rolled his shoulders and glanced at the women. “I’ve got this,” he said firmly, already stepping forward.

Reiko gripped her baton, smirking. “Like hell you do. I called dibs the second he opened his pompous mouth.”

María slid her feet against the pavement, bouncing on the balls of her feet like a boxer, eyes sharp. “No, no, señoritas first. Beauty before age.” She grinned wickedly, throwing the jab like a knife.

Drake’s beak dropped open. “Age? Excuse me, I’m in better shape than—”

“Rock, paper, scissors?” Reiko cut in, holding up a hand like she was deadly serious.

María laughed. “What are we, twelve?”

“Fine,” Drake muttered, exasperated. “We’ll just—”

“—kick his ass together?” Reiko finished, eyebrow arched.

The three of them exchanged a look, and then, in perfect sync, nodded.

The Duke, who had been watching their little spat with growing impatience, finally snarled, his deep voice cutting through the snow-laden night. “Must thou prattle like jesters in the court? Choose thy champion, or face me all at once, ere I grow weary of this charade!”

Drake smirked. “All together it is.”

They moved as one.

Reiko was first in, baton snapping down against The Duke’s wrist with a crack that forced his hand open. His chain clattered to the pavement. María followed instantly, slipping past him with a low weave and driving her fist square into his kidney. The mastiff grunted, buckling slightly, only to snap back with a wild backhand. Drake intercepted, catching the thick wrist with his tie wrapped tight, yanking the big dog off balance.

Reiko drove her foot into his groin, María came up with a sharp uppercut to his jaw, and Drake finished the flurry by twisting the tie and pulling The Duke’s face down into a knee to the face. The impact echoed off the alley walls, snow scattering from the dumpster.

The mastiff reeled, staggered, still not down. His huge chest heaved, growl rumbling like distant thunder. “Wretched… curs…” he groaned, teeth red with blood.

“Shut up already,” Drake muttered, before leaping forward. He twisted midair and delivered a spinning kick square to The Duke’s temple. The mastiff’s head snapped to the side, body twisting, before he crashed onto the icy ground with a seismic thud.

Silence followed.

Snowflakes drifted lazily down on the scene—the Duke sprawled unconscious, the Pharaohs defeated, the three of them standing over the wreckage.

Reiko twirled her baton with a smug little flourish before collapsing it. “Well. That was fun.”

María shook out her knuckles, wincing, then grinned. “Almost makes me wish more would show up.”

Drake looped his tie back around his neck, knotting it loosely with a sigh. “Not my idea of foreplay, but it works.”

The three of them stepped out of the alley, leaving behind the unconscious mastiff and the groans of his retreating crew. Drake slung his arms over María and Reiko’s shoulders, drawing them in close as if they were an inseparable unit.

Reiko nudged him in the ribs with her baton as she tucked it back into her coat. “Not bad for an old man. No retirement home for you yet.”

Drake smirked, “You wound me, Inspector. That was all finesse.”

María slipped an arm around his waist, tugging him closer, her voice sultry with a Spanish lilt. “Mm, finesse. I don’t know, cariño… I’d call it sexy as fuck.”

That drew a bark of laughter from Reiko, who leaned in against his other side, close enough that Drake could smell the faint tang of cigarette smoke still clinging to her feathers. “Careful, Detective. You’ll give him ideas.”

“I already have ideas,” Drake muttered, but the grin on his beak gave him away. His pulse still pounded from the fight, muscles loose, chest warm. The club had lit the fuse, the alley had stoked it higher, and now the three of them walked with a simmering charge between them, every brush of an arm or shoulder sparking hotter than the last.

María’s hand slid over his lower back, fingertips teasing. Reiko’s laugh was softer now, her gaze lingering on both of them with something equal parts daring and hungry.

The hotel was half a block away, its neon sign cutting through the snowy haze like a beacon.

And as they crossed the street, bundled together, sweaty and smiling like criminals who had just gotten away with something, one truth was clear—

—Drake Mallard was going to miss another night of sleep.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four: In a Lonely Place

Drake pushed the door of the hotel suite open with his shoulder, the three of them tumbling in with the heat of the night still clinging to their skin. Snowflakes melted in their feathers and hair, leaving a chill that only seemed to feed the fire burning between them. The elevator ride up had already been molten—María and Reiko pressed together, kissing like their lives depended on it, hands roaming freely as if they couldn’t wait another second. Drake had stood there, caught between amusement and pure arousal, knowing full well there would be no rest for the wicked tonight.

The door clicked shut behind them, and in an instant, Reiko shrugged off her coat, tossing it over a chair without a care. Fingers already slipping down her blouse, she gave the suite a cursory glance, her voice breathless but playful.

“Nice room,” she murmured, smirking over her shoulder at Drake and María. “Where’s the bathroom? I need to… freshen up, so to speak.”

Drake pointed toward the door on the far side. Reiko started toward it with deliberate sway, every flick of her hips and the teasing ruffle of her tail feathers dragging his and María’s eyes like iron to a magnet. The bathroom door shut softly behind her, and suddenly the room felt smaller, hotter.

María didn’t waste a second. She stepped into Drake, her hands rising to his chest, and kissed him. Hard. Hungry. Her beak pressed against his with the same urgency as they had in the club, the same electricity that had carried them into the alley. Drake’s hands found her ass, pulling her flush against him as the kiss deepened until María broke away, panting softly, eyes burning with both desire and a flicker of hesitation.

“Drake…” she whispered, brushing her thumb over his beak.

He swallowed, steadying himself, his voice low but firm. “I know. We need to talk.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, but she nodded. “If she joins us… if we let this happen… it changes things.”

He met her gaze without wavering. “It only changes what we let it. We don’t have to make promises or call it something it’s not.”

María’s lips quirked in a half-smile, though her eyes searched his. “So what are we calling it then?”

Drake smirked faintly, his hand tracing down her arm. “Fun. A wild way to cap off the night. Nothing more, unless we say otherwise.”

She exhaled, the tension easing, replaced by that simmering hunger he’d seen in her since the dance floor. “Consent. Both of us. Always.”

“Always,” he echoed, brushing his beak against hers before they kissed again—slower this time, but no less fiery.

As they pulled apart, the faint sound of water running in the bathroom reached them. Both turned their heads, watching the door like it was the start of something inevitable.

“Then we’re agreed,” María murmured, lips curving in a daring smile. "A threesome with your ex."

“Agreed,” Drake said, his pulse racing.

Because when Reiko stepped back out, there would be no turning back.

María unbuttoned her blouse and peeled it off. The fabric whispered through the air, revealing her tight, muscular abs and the swell of her breasts inside her pink bra. She stepped closer, her breath ghosting over his beak, and reached for the zipper on Drake's slacks. He didn’t resist; instead, he watched her through narrowed eyes, his own hand moving to her hip, stroking the soft fabric of her pants, his thumb tracing the curve of her waist.

"Starting without me?" Reiko chuckled, stepping out of the bathroom. Her blouse was now gone, along with her own pants. She stood there in a matching black lace bra and panties, her feathers fluffed slightly as she looked at the two ducks.

María's eyes flickered over to Reiko, a spark of excitement in them as she stepped back slightly, leaving Drake's pants open. He took a deep breath, his eyes traveling the length of Reiko's body, the curve of her breasts, the way her tail feathers fanned out like a peacock’s, and the confident swagger of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing.

"Just getting him ready," María grinned as Reiko closed the gap.

"Well, he can wait," Reiko purred, her hands falling on María's hips, "I already know what he's like, I want to see what you're made of first."

María's smile grew, a hint of challenge in it as she locked eyes with Reiko. "Oh, I'd love to show you."

Reiko's grin widened, the corners of her eyes crinkling in mischief as she stepped closer, her hands sliding up to cup María's breasts. The detective's breath hitched as Reiko's thumbs traced circles around her, teasing them through the fabric. Drake watched, his heart hammering in his chest, his cock straining against the confines of his open slacks. He'd seen Reiko in action before, but never like this—so unbridled, so... possessive.

María's own hands were not idle. She slipped one behind Reiko's neck, her other sliding down to unclasp the bra the crow wore. It fell away, and her breasts spilled out, full and round. Drake's eyes devoured the sight, his fingers twitching with the need to touch, but he just let them enjoy themselves...

...for now.

María dipped low, slurping one of Reiko's nipples into her mouth, making the crow gasp. Her tongue danced around the sensitive bud, flicking and teasing as Reiko's hands dropped to María's pants, quickly unbuttoning them and pushing them down. The duck's own underwear followed suit, leaving her bare in front of both of them.

Reiko looked past María at Drake, seeing the mallard squirming on the nearby bed. She leaned in and whispered into María's ear, low and husky, the smell of cigarettes and alcohol heavy on her breath, "Let's give him a good show."

María chuckled, her breath hot against Reiko's neck as she pulled back, her hands slipping down to cup Reiko’s ass firmly. The crow gasped and arched into the touch, a soft moan escaping her beak. They had danced around each other for so long, a night of teasing and flirting, of whispered promises.

And now they were ready to devour each other.

Taking the lead, María turned Reiko around and shoved the crow down onto the bed, crawling on top of her to kiss her deeply, fingers finding the waistband of Reiko's panties and tugging them down roughly, leaving the crow's body fully exposed to the cool air. Reiko’s legs parted willingly, her talons digging into the duck’s back as they kissed with a passion that was both fiery and tender. Their breasts mashed together, their feathers fluttering with each ragged breath.

Their kiss broke with a wet smack, and María leaned back, her eyes smoldering with need as she took in the sight of Reiko lying out before her. The crow’s eyes gleamed with excitement as she watched the detective lean down, her tongue darting out to lick a path from Reiko’s neck to her breasts, and then down to her stomach, tracing the contours of her body like a map of pleasure.

Drake shuffled closer to the two, leaning down to capture Reiko's mouth in a kiss as María went lower still, skipping over Reiko's sex and down to her thighs, leaving a trail of kisses that made the crow's body quiver with anticipation. Reiko’s hand shot out, grabbing a handful of Drake's neck feathers, pulling him closer until she could feel his erection pressing against her thigh through his boxers. She moaned into the kiss, her other hand reaching up to tug at his tie.

María took that as her cue. She slid her tongue along Reiko's inner thigh, savoring the taste of her flesh. She felt the heat emanating from Reiko's pussy, the scent of her arousal thick in the air. It was intoxicating, making her mouth water with desire. She could feel Reiko’s legs tense, could see the muscles in her stomach clench as she approached, and she knew she was driving the crow wild. She wasted no more time, her tongue finally touching the hot, slick folds of Reiko’s sex.

"Mmf!" Reiko's eyes went wide as she moaned into Drake's mouth, hips bucking upwards involuntarily as she felt the first touch of María's tongue. The detective took her time, exploring every inch of the crow’s sex with gentle strokes, teasing out the sweetness of her arousal. Reiko's hands fisted in the bedsheets, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts as Drake pulled back, flicking his fingers through the hair on her head, whispering,

"How does she feel?"

"So good, God..." Reiko murmured.

This was María's first time with another woman, but she approached it with the same confidence and passion she had for everything. She slid her tongue along the folds of Reiko’s sex, exploring every crevice, tasting every drop of her sweetness. Reiko’s body responded instinctively, her hips rolling to meet each caress, her moans growing louder with each passing second. Drake watched them, his cock hardening further as he took in the sight of his two lovers entwined, the raw, unbridled passion playing out before him. He had never seen anything so beautiful—María’s soft, tender touches, Reiko’s wild abandon. It was like watching two elements collide in a dance of fiery passion. He tugged his pants and boxers down, grabbing his length, stroking it slowly as he watched.

María’s tongue found its target, circling Reiko’s clit with expert precision. The crow’s body arched, a keening wail tearing from her throat as pleasure crashed through her in waves. Drake’s hand moved faster, his own need growing with each of Reiko’s cries. He leaned in, his beak grazing Reiko’s neck, whispering darkly as he teased her, “I always loved it when you moaned like that.”

Reiko's eyes snapped over to him, and she hissed out a, "Shut up," her flesh red under the dark feathers of her cheeks.

María took Reiko's clit into her mouth, sucking and flicking with her tongue, making the crow’s body convulse beneath her. Reiko’s moans grew in volume and pitch, her legs wrapping around the detective’s neck, holding her in place as if she was afraid she’d vanish if she let go. It was a sight that had Drake's member spilling precum onto his fist, his eyes locked on the two of them as if he could burn the image into his memory.

"María," Reiko whimpered, "Get on me, I need to taste you too."

María's eyes glinted with excitement as she complied, sliding up Reiko's body and straddling her face. Her pussy hovered above Reiko's mouth, wet and eager, as the crow's tongue darted out to meet her. Reiko’s eyes rolled back in pleasure at the first taste of her lover’s slickness, her hands gripping the detective's hips, urging her closer.

María’s mouth descended onto Reiko’s sex once more, her tongue plunging deep as the crow’s own tongue met her with eager strokes. The room was filled with the sounds of wet kisses and slurps, the scent of arousal thickening the air. The duck’s hips began to rock, grinding against Reiko’s face as she took her time to savor every part of her.

"You two are killing me here," Drake mumbled, watching the two women go at each other with such primal need. He was torn between joining in and just watching the show. But the decision was made for him when Reiko reached out and grabbed his cock, her grip firm and demanding. He groaned and stroked himself faster, the heat of their desire burning him up. Drake sat up, got onto his knees, bounced along the mattress, and got himself between Reiko's thighs where María was feasting on Reiko's dripping pussy.

María looked up at Drake, stopping her licks to reach and spread Reiko's pussy with her fingers as she whispered, "You best save some for me, papi."

Drake just smirked as he ran his tip along Reiko's wet slit before bringing it up to María's mouth, "Oh, I plan to," he said, watching as she took his length into her mouth, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked him deep. The sight was almost too much to bear—these two women, one licking the other's pussy, the other eagerly swallowing his cock.

He finally pulled himself from María's beak and teased Reiko's entrance again, making the crow moan against María's sex with need. Between lewd licks of Reiko's clit, María smirked at Drake, whispering the words he wanted to hear, "Fuck her."

The mallard didn't need any more encouragement. He lined himself up, the head of his cock nudging against Reiko's slickness, and pushed in. She was tight, hot, a perfect fit. Her eyes went wide with a mix of pleasure and surprise, and she took a deep breath through her nose, letting out a low, guttural moan as he filled her.

María watched Drake plunge into the avian, her own arousal spiking as she felt the vibration of Reiko's moan against her clit. She picked up the pace, her tongue moving in rhythm with Drake's thrusts, the crow's hands digging into her thighs as she did so. They moved together, a symphony of pleasure that grew louder and more intense with each passing moment. Reiko’s eyes were squeezed shut, her beak open in a moan as Drake filled her completely. The sensation was overwhelming—his girth stretching her, his length reaching places she’d never felt in so long. And yet, she wanted more. Her hips began to buck up to meet him, urging him deeper as she continued to suck and lick at María.

The detective's own pleasure grew with every stroke of Reiko's long tongue, the pressure building in her own core as she watched Drake’s muscles flex with each push into Reiko. She felt the heat of their joined bodies, the sweat slicking their feathers together, making them glide against each other like silk.

"I'm close," María whimpered, her tongue stabbing at Reiko's clit, her breath coming in ragged pants as she felt her own climax approaching. Reiko was just behind her, her licks more erratic as she mewled into María's sex, the vibrations sending shockwaves through the detective's body.

And then it hit her—Reiko's body tightened around Drake's cock, her talons digging into María’s thighs, her pussy pulsing as she came. The feeling of her climax sent a bolt of electricity through the mallard’s body, making him thrust harder, his own orgasm close at hand. He watched as María’s eyes rolled back in her head, her cries muffled by Reiko's pussy as she too reached her peak. The two of them moved as one, the sound of their moans echoing off the walls of the small room.

Drake pulled out of Reiko, watching the two women writhe together, lost in a tangle of feathers and limbs. The sight was indescribable—his heart hammered in his chest, his cock still hard and gleaming with their combined arousal.

"María's turn," he whispered to the two, his voice thick with desire as he sat back, stroking himself as he watched the two women come down from their high. María slid off Reiko's body and flopped onto her back beside the crow, panting heavily, a smirk spreading across her features as she looked at Drake,

"Come and get it."

The detective’s chest rose and fell in time with her ragged breaths, her feathers fluffed from the intense orgasm. Her eyes were half-closed, a lazy smile playing on her lips as she watched him crawl over to her. Reiko, still catching her breath, shifted to make room, one of her hands reaching over to tease María's breasts. Drake was harder than he had ever been as he hovered over his lover, the tip of his dick glistening with his precum and Reiko's juices.

María spread her legs, her pussy glistening and begging for attention. She looked up at him, a glint in her eye, "Fuck me like you fucked her."

Drake didn't need to be told twice. He positioned himself at her entrance and thrust in with one hard stroke. She was wet, so wet from Reiko's ministrations, and he slid in easily, filling her up with his thick length. She gasped and her eyes rolled back as he began to move, his hips slapping against hers with the steady rhythm of a drum. The sound of their bodies colliding filled the room, the slap of skin on skin punctuating the air with a primal beat.

Reiko leaned over to kiss the female duck, the two of them sharing a moment of passionate intimacy as they touched each other. Their kiss grew more heated as Drake’s thrusts grew more urgent, and María’s moans grew louder. The crow’s talons danced across the detective’s body, tracing the contours of her muscles, leaving a trail of fire wherever they touched. The room was a blur of motion, feathers fluttering and limbs entwined, as the three of them gave in to the storm of sensation that had been building inside of them for so long.

"Thank you," Reiko whispered against María's mouth.

"F-for?" María panted, her body coiled tight, her eyes snapping open to meet Reiko's.

"Allowing this to happen," Reiko replied, kissing along María's throat, "I know he's all yours, but... thank you for sharing."

María’s eyes darkened with lust and affection as she pulled Reiko closer, her hips rising to meet Drake’s thrusts, the two of them sharing a knowing smile. "You're welcome," María gasped, "I wanted this as soon as I saw you."

A bit of a lie, of course. María thought she would have to compete against Drake's ex, but now here they were, the three of them tangled in bed. It was a scene she had never dared to imagine, but now that it was unfolding before her, she realized it was exactly what she needed.

"I'm going to cum," Drake grunted, bringing María's focus back to him.

Her eyes snapped to him, her own need spiking at the desperation in his voice. She reached up and grabbed his neck, pulling him down for a kiss as she felt his cock swell within her. The kiss grew deeper, more passionate as they moved together, the world outside forgotten, the cold night air a distant memory.

Reiko reached down and slapped her hand on Drake's ass, encouraging him to fuck María harder, deeper, faster. The sound of their bodies colliding grew louder, a sloshing, squelching. The crow's eyes locked onto the detective's, the fire of desire burning in them as she watched her ex-lover pound into the tan-feathered woman below him, her breasts bouncing with every thrust.

"Cum in her," Reiko demanded, "Make her cum."

María's breath caught in her throat, her eyes locked onto Drake's. The intensity in his gaze was almost too much, the heat of his stare making her core pulse around his thick shaft. Her hands tightened around his neck, her legs wrapping around his waist as she felt the coil of pleasure in her belly tighten to a point of no return. She could feel herself getting closer, the pressure building, a dam ready to burst.

And then she exploded.

María’s orgasm hit like a tornado, ripping through her body with the force of a thousand storms. Her feathers stood on end, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she screamed her release into the night, the sound echoing off the walls of her apartment. Her pussy clamped down on Drake’s cock, her muscles pulsing in time with her racing heartbeat. He felt it—the way she was coming apart around him, the way she was shaking, the way she was gripping him like a lifeline—and it pushed him over the edge.

With a roar of triumph and pleasure, Drake came inside María. His cock spasmed, his hot seed filling her up as he pumped deep and hard, his body trembling with the power of his climax. The feeling was indescribable—like coming home after a long, hard journey. He shuddered as he spilled inside of her, before finally collapsing, his body heavy with satisfaction.

María watched his face contort as he came, her own orgasm riding the crest of his. She felt every pulse of his cock, the heat of his release, and it sent her spiraling over the edge into another micro-orgasm. Her pussy clamped down on him, her legs trembling as she milked every drop from him, her walls pulsing with the aftershocks of pleasure. She had never felt so alive, so wanted, so... needed.

The two of them lay there, sweat-slicked and panting, their feathers sticking together in the sticky heat of their passion. Reiko was still there, and her hand trailed over Drake's back, her touch feather-light, as if she were afraid to break the spell.

María's eyes were still glazed over with pleasure, but she managed to look up at Drake with a smug grin, "Looks like you still got it, papi."

The mallard chuckled, his chest heaving with the exertion. "Thanks," he murmured, leaning in to kiss her gently, smiling against her beak. He then looked over at Reiko, whose hand was still gently stroking his back. "And you, how come I never knew about how wild you were when we dated?"

Reiko smirked, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "You never asked," she replied coyly, her talons playing with his feathers.

Slowly, Drake pulled himself free of María's pussy, his cock glistening with the evidence of their passion. He leaned back, panting, the alcohol in his system burned away from their wild union, his eyes taking in the scene before him. Reiko rolled into María, the two of them kissing once more, something tender, filled with exhaustion and satisfaction. The room was a mess—clothes strewn everywhere, the bed a disaster of rumpled sheets and feathers sticking to their sweaty skin.

"If it's all the same to you two," Reiko flopped on her back, "I am staying here tonight. I don't know if my legs will work."

María chuckled, her breath coming in heavy gasps. "I sure as hell don't mind." Her eyes then flicked up to Drake, "What about you, old timer?"

The mallard's smirk was the only answer she needed. He collapsed between them, his arms wrapping around Reiko and María, pulling them closer to the warmth of their bodies. They lay there in a tangle of limbs and feathers, the only sound their heavy breathing and the occasional closing of a room door out in the hallway of the hotel.

"Thanks again," Reiko muttered, sleep already starting to creep into her voice, "I really wasn't planning on any of this, you know. I expected seeing Drake and things being more... awkward."

María snickered, her chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of her breath. "Life rarely goes according to plan," she murmured, her hand stroking through Reiko's hair. "But sometimes, it gives us what we need, even if we don't know we're looking for it. But I have to know, why did you two break up anyhow?"

Drake tensed, his grip on María tightening slightly. It was a question he had never wanted to answer, not really. The truth was messy, full of shadows and regret. "It was complicated," he said finally, his voice gruff. "We were both different people back then."

María nodded, her eyes understanding. She knew all too well how the weight of secrets and costumes could wear on a person. "It's just... I see how much you two still care about each other." Her voice then grew soft, contemplative... regretful. "It seems like a waste."

"Hey," Reiko reached up and cupped María's cheek, "No jealousy. Drake and I? Yeah, we'll always be friends, but you two? You two are special, I can see it in his eyes, and yours."

María blinked, surprise and relief flooding through her. She had never been one for sharing, but with Reiko it felt...right. Like they were all connected in some strange, beautiful way.

"I'm sorry," María murmured, nuzzling Reiko's hand, "Just a wild night, ya know?"

"Tell me about it," Drake chuckled, his voice low and intimate as he kissed the top of María's head. "But I think we should get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be—"

"—rough." Reiko finished for him.

Drake pulled the cover up over their tangled bodies, his arm draping over Reiko’s shoulders, his other hand finding its way to María's waist. They all lay still, letting their breathing return to normal. each woman slowly drifting off into slumber, lulled by the steady thump of his heartbeat.

But not Drake.

He lay there, listening to their breathing synchronize, his mind racing with thoughts of the night's events. The chase, the passion, the way it had all come together—he felt young again, the aches and pains of age and a career fighting villains on the streets of St. Canard momentarily forgotten. But as the warmth of their bodies began to seep into his own, the darkness in his mind began to swirl once more. Out there, in the cold, in the shadows, the criminal element lay waiting, eager to prey on the weak.

Darkwing Duck was whispering once more.

The room was hushed, save for the faint hum of the heating system and the occasional groan of pipes in the walls. Reiko stirred against the sheets, the warmth of María’s body pressed against her back, her arm draped lazily over her hip. The crow blinked, heavy-lidded, head still foggy from liquor, exhaustion, and passion, before glancing toward the glowing red digits of the clock on the nightstand.

4:47 a.m.

Her brow furrowed. Something wasn’t right.

Drake wasn't there.

A chill snaked over her feathers, raising the down along her neck. She shifted slightly, the cold air biting in from the far side of the room, seeing the main window open. The curtains stirred faintly, pale fabric swaying like restless ghosts. Her frown deepened.

She carefully pulled the blanket higher over María’s shoulder, tucking it in gently so as not to wake her. Sliding out of bed, Reiko pressed her bare feet to the carpet, hissing softly at the chill before reaching for the slacks she’d discarded in the night. She pulled them on quickly, then shrugged into her coat, cinching it tight across her waist before padding silently across the suite.

The closer she drew to the window, the louder the city became; distant traffic, the rumbles of the above-ground train, and the whistle of the winter wind clawing its way up the building’s face. She paused at the threshold, steeling herself, before leaning out into the night.

And there he was.

Drake crouched outside on the narrow ledge of stone, nine stories above the empty street, framed by the grotesque granite gargoyles that jutted from the art deco façade of the hotel. He was nude, his body silhouetted in the faint light, the lines of his muscles taut and sharp in the cold air. His posture was feral—balanced on the balls of his feet, one arm resting on his knee, the other gripping the edge of the stone as though he belonged there, a sentinel carved into the building itself. His cape wasn’t there, no mask, no costume, but everything about him in that moment screamed Darkwing Duck, the predator watching from above.

Reiko’s eyes went wide, a chill racing down her spine that had nothing to do with the wind. Her breath fogged out in quick bursts as she leaned a little farther, her voice breaking the frozen silence.

“Drake?!” she hissed, alarm and disbelief tangled together. “What the fuck are you doing out there?”

Her voice cut through the night, but Drake didn’t move immediately. For a few heartbeats, he stayed as he was, hunched like a gargoyle over his city, eyes fixed on something only he could see. When he finally turned his head, the faint glow from the street caught his eyes, glinting in a way that made Reiko’s stomach knot.

He looked every bit the vigilante still—haunted, restless, and dangerous—even with the warmth of their shared bed just steps away.

Reiko’s hand trembled in the cold as she reached for him, palm open, fingers beckoning. The icy wind whipped strands of her hair across her face, but she didn’t care. All she saw was Drake, hunched on the ledge like a statue of vigilance and regret, his gaze fixed on the empty streets below. He didn’t flinch at her gesture. He didn’t move.

“Drake,” she said firmly, her voice cutting against the hiss of the wind. “Come inside.”

He shifted slightly but didn’t answer, his eyes scanning the darkened city as though waiting for trouble to stir from the shadows. His silence gnawed at her, that stubborn refusal to let go of the mantle even for a night.

“Dammit,” she muttered under her breath, leaning further out the window. The cold clawed at her chest, but she ignored it. Her tone softened, her words nearly a plea. “Drake, please. Come back inside. The streets don’t need you right now.”

Still nothing. He looked down again, jaw clenched, feathers ruffling slightly in the wind.

Reiko’s heart pounded. Her voice cracked as she tried again, desperate to break through. “María does.”

That name struck like a hammer. Drake’s head turned sharply, his eyes finally locking with hers. For the first time since she spotted him on the ledge, the steel in his gaze faltered. His shoulders sagged, the grim mask slipping just enough to reveal exhaustion beneath.

“Alright,” he said at last, voice low and raw.

Slowly, carefully, he shifted along the ledge and swung himself back through the window, landing barefoot on the carpet. The warmth of the suite embraced him immediately, but his body radiated chill.

Reiko didn’t give him the chance to steady himself. She surged forward, crashing into him, arms wrapping tight as she opened her coat to draw him against her body. His skin was ice beneath her touch, every inch of him drawing the heat from her own body.

“Jesus Christ,” she hissed, though she kept her voice low, mindful of María’s slumber. “You’re freezing. How long were you out there?!”

Her hand shot past him to slam the window shut, cutting off the bitter gusts.

Drake shook his head slowly, as though the question barely registered. His feathers were damp with frost, his breath uneven. “I don’t know,” he murmured, voice distant, hollow. “I lost track.”

Reiko cupped the back of his neck, forcing him to look at her, her eyes sharp but glimmering with concern. He looked every bit the hero still, but stripped raw, vulnerable.

“I can’t sleep, Reiko,” he admitted at last, the confession rough in his throat.

The words came out of Drake in fragments, like glass splintering under pressure. He stood stiff in Reiko’s arms for a moment, then sagged, his breath ragged, his eyes burning with something far heavier than the cold. His voice cracked as he finally forced it out.

“It’s my fault, Reiko.”

She froze, her arms tightening instinctively. “What?”

His beak trembled as the words spilled, each one dragged from some dark cavern inside him. “Launchpad—he’s dead because of me. Because I couldn’t let go of this… crusade. Because I needed to be Darkwing Duck. I dragged him into it, night after night, always telling myself it was for the greater good. And now he’s gone. That’s why we’re here tonight. Why tomorrow we stand at his grave. Because of me.”

His voice broke. He tried to swallow it down, tried to stand tall as he always did, but the dam burst. His fists clenched into Reiko’s coat as he collapsed against her, the weight of his guilt dragging him down.

“I killed him,” Drake choked out, words muffled against her shoulder. “My best friend—my brother. He trusted me, and I got him killed. I should’ve—God, I should’ve been smarter, faster, better. I should’ve taken the hit, not him. I replay it every night, every damn night, Reiko. The sound, me screaming his name, and then—”

His voice spiraled into rambling, broken shards of memory and blame. “I should’ve stopped… I should’ve walked away when it was enough. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop. And now—now all of this blood is on me, and I still can't stop.”

Tears streamed down his face, feathers damp, his body trembling violently as years of bottled anguish spilled out. Reiko barely had time to react before his knees buckled. She pulled him with her as she sank to the carpet, lowering him gently, holding him as though he might shatter completely if she let go.

“Drake, hey… hey, look at me,” she whispered fiercely, pulling his face into the curve of her neck, rocking him slightly. Her arms wrapped around him like a mother sheltering her child from a storm. She stroked the back of his head, soothing, grounding, anchoring him against the flood.

“It’s not your fault,” she whispered again and again, voice steady even as her throat tightened. “Do you hear me? It’s not your fault. Launchpad wasn’t some pawn you dragged along. He was your partner. He chose this life. He chose you. Every time he got in that plane, every time he stood at your side, he knew the risks. He went because he wanted to. Because he believed in you.”

Drake shook his head violently, the words not sinking in, his sobs tearing out of him raw and desperate. Reiko only held him tighter, her cheek pressed against his temple, her voice low and insistent, cutting through his storm.

“He died doing what he thought was right. Fighting beside the person he trusted most. Don’t you dare take that from him. Don’t you turn his sacrifice into your punishment. He wouldn’t want that. He wouldn’t want this.”

Drake clutched at her like a drowning man, his whole body wracked with shudders, the façade of Darkwing Duck stripped away until only Drake Mallard remained—broken, grieving, unbearably human.

And Reiko held him there on the hotel floor, rocking gently, whispering, refusing to let him sink into the abyss he’d carried for far too long, and they remained that way until the first rays of dawn splintered through the darkness.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five: Leave

Saturday.

Steam curled around the tiled walls of the suite’s bathroom, blurring the glass of the shower door in hazy rivulets. María stood beneath the stream of hot water, letting it cascade over her feathers, down her shoulders, rinsing away the sweat and perfume of last night. Her eyes were half-closed, the fogged mirror beyond the glass reflecting only vague shapes, and in the intimacy of that warmth, her voice rose, soft and low, carrying an old tune that clung to her heart.

"Ya no estás más a mi lado, corazón…"

Her voice trembled slightly as she sang, a bittersweet melody weaving through the hiss of the water.

María leaned back against the tile, fingertips pressed to her lips, remembering. Remembering Drake’s arms around her, the unexpected but welcome heat of Reiko’s body against hers. The way jealousy had burned in her gut the moment Reiko walked into that bar—her feathers bristling at the thought of another woman having shared history with the man she loved. But that had melted, frighteningly fast. Melted into something else entirely.

"En el alma sólo tengo soledad…"

The water beat harder against her chest, and María tilted her head back into it, eyes closing as droplets streaked her face like tears. She smiled faintly, though her heart pounded. Reiko had disarmed her, not with words, but with presence—the sly grin, the sharp eyes, the stubbornness that matched María’s own. She’d never thought herself the type to be drawn to another woman. Yet, in that moment, in the pulse of the club, she’d felt it: desire. Raw, undeniable.

"Y si ya no puedo verte, por qué Dios me hizo quererte…"

Her hands slid slowly through her hair, rinsing shampoo away, her voice faltering as memory clashed with the reality of who she usually was. A cop. Disciplined. Structured. The one who scolded rookies for sloppy reports, who lived by procedure, by training, by the book. And yet last night—Dios mío. She had broken every unspoken rule she had ever clung to.

She had kissed Reiko. More than kissed her. She had shared a bed with both her and Drake, their bodies entwined until exhaustion finally took them.

The thought alone made her heart race with a cocktail of shame and exhilaration.

"Para hacerme sufrir más…"

Her voice cracked as she whispered the lyric, pressing her forehead to the slick tile. She had never been so brazen, so reckless—and yet so alive. The heat of Reiko’s mouth, the weight of Drake’s hands, the dizzying mix of it all—it frightened her because she had enjoyed it. Craved it.

She ran her palms slowly over her stomach, down her thighs, the water streaming across her, almost cleansing, almost not.

María exhaled shakily, whispering the final verse with trembling sincerity.

"Es la historia de un amor, como no hay otro igual…"

Her voice faded into the spray, leaving only her thoughts behind—messy, tangled, dangerous, but impossibly intoxicating.

She had crossed a line last night.

And she wasn’t sure she wanted to go back.

María stepped out of the shower, steam trailing in her wake as she wrapped her damp hair in a towel. She padded across the floor, toweling herself dry before moving deliberately through her morning routine. Moisturizer, foundation, a touch of eyeliner—each motion steady, practiced. Her reflection in the bathroom mirror looked calm, collected, though her heart still carried the echoes of last night.

Once her hair was dried and smoothed into place, she slipped into a fresh outfit: pressed slacks, a matching blazer, and a cream-colored blouse tucked neatly at the waist. Clean lines. Professional. A suit of armor that helped her feel more like herself again. She checked the mirror one last time, inhaled, then stepped back into the suite.

The first thing she saw was Reiko. The crow stood near the door, sliding her arms into her trench coat, black feathers gleaming faintly in the morning light. Her expression was calm but unreadable, as though she’d already put on her own mask for the day.

“Heading out?” María asked, tugging at the cuff of her blazer as she approached.

Reiko glanced over, her sharp eyes softening just a fraction. “Yeah. I won’t be going with you two. The cemetery… that’s not for me. I was only ever a police connection to the Justice Ducks. I wouldn’t feel right standing there.” She tugged the lapel of her coat into place, glancing about the suite, then added, “Besides, St. Canard doesn’t stop for grief. There’s work to be done.”

María followed her gaze across the room—and there he was. Drake, slumped in one of the armchairs near the window, black suit and tie immaculate despite the way he sat. His bill parted slightly, soft snores slipping out as his head lolled to the side. The sight tugged something in her chest.

“How long has he been out?” she asked quietly.

Reiko’s answer came with a small sigh. “Fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. He didn’t close his eyes once last night.”

She didn't bother to mention Drake standing outside the room naked on the ledge of the building.

María frowned, arms folding across her chest as she studied him. His face looked so much older in sleep—creases drawn deep by exhaustion, by years of guilt he refused to set down. “He hasn’t slept properly in almost a week,” she murmured, more to herself than to Reiko. “I’m worried about him.”

Reiko leaned against the doorframe, one hand resting casually on her hip, the other tugging her coat sleeve straight. “He’ll be fine,” she said, though her voice carried that deliberate tone cops used when they weren’t sure of their own words. “After he sees Launchpad today… after he says what he needs to say… it’ll take the weight off him. He’ll come back from it.”

María’s eyes lingered on Drake’s sleeping form. She wanted to believe it. Needed to believe it. But doubt pressed in all the same.

Silence slipped between the two women, heavy and awkward. The sound of Drake’s quiet snoring filled the space between them, a reminder of everything unsaid.

After a few long moments, Reiko finally broke the silence, “When are you two heading back to Duckburg?”

María blinked, brought out of her thoughts, then answered softly, “Sunday morning.”

Reiko nodded slowly, as though filing it away, then tilted her head, her sharp eyes softening just a little. “Then we should have dinner tonight. Just dinner.” She smirked faintly, holding María’s gaze with a glint of humor. “No drinks. I don’t think either of us needs to tempt fate again.”

That pulled a laugh from María, awkward and warm at once. “Agreed. No drinks.”

For a moment, they simply looked at each other, an unspoken understanding lingering between them. Then, without warning, María stepped forward and wrapped her arms around the crow. Reiko stiffened briefly in surprise, then melted into the embrace, closing her eyes as she returned it firmly.

“I really enjoyed last night,” María murmured into her shoulder, voice low, earnest. “I have no regrets. Not one.”

Reiko’s hand pressed gently into María’s back as she replied, her own voice soft but steady. “Neither do I. It… it was unexpected, but I don’t regret it either.”

They pulled back just enough to meet each other’s eyes, and before either could overthink it, María leaned in. Their lips met in a soft, tender kiss—so different from the wild, heated frenzy of the night before. This was quieter, gentler. A kiss that felt more like understanding than fire.

When they parted, Reiko let out a short laugh, her sarcasm breaking the heaviness of the moment. “Careful, Cabrera. If you’re not, I just might steal you away from Mallard.”

María laughed with her, the sound freer than she expected, and they hugged once more, tighter this time, lingering for a breath before finally letting go.

Reiko straightened her coat, gave María one last look—half-smile, half-promise—then turned and left the suite without another word.

María stood there for a long moment, watching the door click shut behind her. Any trace of guilt that might have lingered in her heart had evaporated, replaced instead with a quiet certainty. She felt lighter. Clearer.

No regrets.

María turned slowly from where she had been standing after Reiko’s departure and crossed the quiet suite. Drake was still slumped in the armchair near the window, his long frame folded awkwardly into the cushions, his chest rising and falling in the uneven rhythm of someone too exhausted to fight sleep any longer. His tie was loosened, his jacket crumpled beneath him, and there was something almost boyish in the way his head lolled to one side, his mouth faintly open.

She crouched in front of him, her knees bending until she was level with him, and gently placed her hands on his thighs. Her touch was careful, warm. “Hey,” she whispered, leaning close enough that her breath brushed against his feathers. “Sleepyhead… up and at ’em.”

Drake stirred at once, coughing lightly before snorting in surprise, his eyelids fluttering open. He blinked at her, disoriented for a moment, then focused on the woman crouched before him. His brow furrowed as if he were trying to measure time. “How long… how long have I been out?” His voice was hoarse, strained from fatigue.

“Not long,” María replied softly, her thumb rubbing against the fabric of his slacks.

He rubbed his eyes, still trying to shake the weight of exhaustion clinging to him, but she cut him off before he could even think of brushing it aside. “Drake,” she warned gently, though her tone carried an edge of steel. “If you don’t sleep tonight, I swear I’ll sneak sleeping pills into your food. Don’t test me.”

That drew the faintest ghost of a smile from him as he pushed himself up, unfolding slowly from the chair. He stood tall, rolling his shoulders, his suit rumpled but still sharp. He looked around the suite, then frowned. “Where’s Reiko?”

María stood too, folding her arms loosely as she watched him scan the room. “She had police business to deal with,” she explained. “Said she wouldn’t feel right coming with us today.”

He nodded faintly, silent for a moment, and she studied him carefully before speaking again, this time her words slower, heavier. “Drake… are we…” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “…are we okay?”

His tired eyes snapped back to her, blinking in confusion. “What do you mean?”

She exhaled, the breath carrying both nerves and honesty. “Last night was…” She faltered, then shook her head with a wry smile. “Crazy. Wonderful. But crazy. I just want to make sure we’re both on the same page. That it was what it was—fun, nothing more. I don’t want either of us carrying the wrong idea.”

For a moment, Drake just looked at her, expression unreadable. Then he stepped forward, closing the distance until his hands were cradling her face. His palms were cool against her cheeks, and when she met his gaze, she was struck again by how tired he looked—not just sleepless, but soul-deep weary. Yet there was no uncertainty in his eyes now.

“I had fun,” he admitted, voice low but steady. “But if you’re worried I’m going to run off with Reiko, don’t. Don’t ever worry about that. You’re stuck with me, Cabrera.”

Her heart skipped. She didn’t trust her voice, so she leaned up into his kiss instead, her lips pressing against his with a tenderness that melted the last of her doubts. His mouth was soft, unhurried, the kind of kiss that said more than words could manage.

When they parted, he rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes for just a moment, as though drawing strength from the contact. “We should get going,” he murmured, his breath mingling with hers. “The others are probably already gathering at St. Canard Cemetery.”

María’s hands slid up to grip his wrists, holding his touch to her face for one more heartbeat before she nodded and broke away from him to fetch her purse and keys.

The snow drifted lazily down in wide, heavy flakes, softening the edges of St. Canard Cemetery. It lay quiet beneath the pale light of early afternoon, the wrought-iron gates dark against the whiteness that gathered on their bars. Beyond them, rows of headstones stretched away, the marble dusted with frost, the air heavy with silence.

María eased her car to the curb, the tires crunching over packed snow. Beside her, Drake sat in the passenger seat, his shoulders squared but his eyes shadowed, fixed on the gates as though bracing himself for what lay beyond.

Outside the cemetery, three figures already waited. Fenton stood with his hands tucked into the pockets of his long black overcoat, the sharp lines of his black suit visible beneath, his white shirt and narrow tie crisp against the gray backdrop. Joey mirrored him in dress—black suit, white shirt, black tie—but his posture was looser, his gaze wandering restlessly between the gates and the street. Neptunia stood apart, her form bundled in the heavy folds of her long hooded coat, damp from melted snow. She looked as though she owned no clothing outside of this garb, yet today it was clean, solemn in its own way.

María parked, smoothed her hands over her slacks, and stepped out into the chill. Drake followed, his gloved hands adjusting the lapels of his dark coat. Together they approached the group, the crunch of feet in the snow the only sound until Drake spoke.

“So,” he said, his voice dry, trying to push through the heaviness of the moment, “how were the waffles last night?”

Fenton shot him a flat look, rolling his eyes as Joey chuckled under his breath as Fenton replied, “They were waffles, Drake. Fluffy, syrupy, golden perfection. Unlike your… whatever that was last night.”

María’s cheeks warmed instantly, and she ducked her head, the blush creeping under her feathers. Drake only smirked, the corner of his beak quirking as he replied with mock-seriousness, “You should’ve been there, Fenton. You might have learned a thing or two.”

Joey barked out a laugh, while Neptunia muttered something that sounded like a prayer for patience. María pressed her lips together, torn between amusement and embarrassment, when the low purr of another engine reached them.

A sleek silver Mercedes pulled up along the curb. Its surface gleamed even beneath the snowy veil, the tires whispering to a stop. From the driver’s side emerged a chauffeur, tall and immaculate in a pressed black suit and gloves, his movements efficient. He circled to the back, opening the rear passenger door with practiced precision.

Out stepped a female duck. Her feathers were white as the snow around them, her hair a short, stylish blonde cut close to her head, smooth and deliberate. She wore a modest charcoal-gray dress beneath a dark coat belted neatly at the waist, her gloves black leather. Around her neck hung a slim silver chain, understated, respectful—an outfit chosen carefully for a cemetery, subtle yet quietly elegant.

María tilted her head, curiosity written across her face as she leaned slightly toward Drake. “Who’s that?” she asked in a low voice.

Drake’s posture stiffened. He drew in a deep, slow breath, his chest rising with the weight of recognition. His eyes narrowed slightly as he watched the woman straighten, thank her driver with a nod, and step toward the gates with quiet composure.

“That,” Drake said, his voice quieter now, heavier, “is Launchpad’s sister… Loopey McQuack.”

Loopey McQuack stepped forward, almost guarded until she smiled and opened her arms, and Fenton moved into them without hesitation. He embraced her firmly, his expression softening in a way María hadn’t seen before—like an older brother greeting family he hadn’t seen in years. Joey followed, grinning sheepishly as he wrapped her in a quick hug that Loopey returned with warmth.

Then, to María’s surprise, Neptunia stepped in. The usually gruff, standoffish fish-woman leaned forward and clasped Loopey in a brief, quiet hug. María’s brows lifted. If Neptunia let anyone touch her without complaint, it meant she trusted them, maybe even cared. It told María everything she needed to know about how deep Loopey’s ties ran with the Justice Ducks.

And then it was Drake’s turn.

The two of them met without a word, slipping into each other’s arms in a long, heavy embrace. Drake held her as if letting go would reopen wounds he had been fighting to keep shut. Loopey’s gloved hands tightened against his back, and María could see the pain etched on both their faces. Launchpad had been more than just a comrade to Drake—he had been his best friend, his anchor in chaos. For Loopey, Launchpad was blood. Brother and brother-in-arms, now gone. The shared grief between them radiated like a weight pressing into the snow-laden air.

When at last they pulled back, Loopey smoothed her coat, her expression fragile but dignified. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the reunion last night,” she said softly, her voice carrying both apology and exhaustion. “Work’s been… busy.”

Her eyes drifted then, settling on María. Before she could ask, Drake gestured toward her.

“This is María Cabrera,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his tired mouth. “Duckburg PD. And… my girlfriend. She’s here to... support me.”

María extended her hand politely, and Loopey took it with a firm, friendly shake. Her grip was steady, professional, and her eyes held none of the unreadable intrigue María had sensed with Reiko. No sparks, no veiled rivalry. Just a woman who was clearly a close friend and confidante to Drake and the Justice Ducks.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Loopey said with quiet sincerity.

“The pleasure is mine,” María replied, her tone respectful.

A beat of silence lingered, the group momentarily caught in the fragile balance between grief and camaraderie. Then Fenton cleared his throat, straightening his tie and stepping forward toward the gates.

“Well,” he said gently, “shall we?”

The others nodded. And together, as one, they turned and entered the gates of St. Canard Cemetery, the snow falling thick and slow around them like the sky itself was mourning.

The cemetery paths were dusted in white, the old stone markers jutting from the snow like crooked teeth. The group walked quietly, their footfalls muted, their breath curling in the cold air. No one dared speak too loudly—there was an unspoken reverence, a heaviness that weighed on their shoulders as they moved deeper among the graves.

María found herself walking beside Loopey. The woman’s presence was calm but strong, her stride steady even as grief lingered behind her eyes. After a moment, Loopey glanced at María, her voice pitched low, as though she were afraid to disturb the silence too much.

“So,” she asked softly, “what’s it like being a cop in Duckburg? I’ve read… some troubling things in the papers.”

María knew instantly what she was referring to. Her jaw tightened slightly. The zombies. The nightmarish creatures that had once clawed through the streets of Duckburg. And then Christmas Eve—Mari Lwyd’s attack. Both events the city government had twisted, covered up, branded as hysteria or acts of terror rather than admitting the truth. María kept her expression even.

“It’s… interesting, to say the least,” she said, careful with her words. She didn’t elaborate. Not here. Not in front of someone who wasn’t part of the circle that lived those horrors.

Sensing María wasn’t going to go into details, Loopey nodded, her expression understanding. “I get it,” she said simply. After a moment, María decided to turn the question back.

“What about you? What do you do?”

Loopey’s bill curved into a small smile. “I’m an executive for DuckAir. One of the bigger airlines. Keeps me busy.”

María raised her brows slightly, impressed. “That’s quite the career.”

“Mm,” Loopey hummed, her eyes softening. “But my real passion has always been flying. Just like my brother. For a while, I was a stunt pilot. I loved it. But Launchpad…” her voice caught briefly at his name, “…he insisted I go to school, get a degree, build a stable career. Said the skies would always be there, but opportunities like that wouldn’t.” She let out a faint laugh, though it was tinged with sadness. “So I did. And now I’m here.”

María studied her profile as they walked. There was pride in Loopey’s words, but also a longing, a tether to a past she wasn’t ready to cut. “Do you still fly?” María asked gently.

That question brought a true smile to Loopey’s face, bright but bittersweet. “Every chance I get. It’s one of the few things that still makes me feel free from the corporate grind. Flying was something Launchpad and I shared. Something I’ll never let go of.”

María nodded, quietly admiring the resolve in the woman beside her. There was strength there, and love, but also the kind of grief María recognized from Drake—grief that would never fully heal.

It was then that a sharp gasp cut through the cold air.

“Wh-what the hell?!” Fenton’s voice cracked, alarmed.

The group froze where they stood, the silence of the cemetery shattered by the grotesque sight before them.

Launchpad’s grave was no longer a place of rest. The earth had been torn open, churned into mounds of half-frozen dirt that spilled across the grass. His headstone was defaced, jagged letters scrawled across its surface in dripping, arterial red:

ALL HEROES WILL DIE.

The words bled down the marble like a wound. The snow had stuck to the edges of the paint, making the message look fresh, like it had been marked only hours before. Shards of shattered granite lay at the base, pieces of the grave marker struck with deliberate malice.

But worse—far worse—was the yawning, gaping pit. The coffin was gone. Launchpad’s body stolen. The grave was nothing but a hollow wound in the earth, black and raw against the white snow.

Drake staggered forward, as though pulled by a magnet. His breath fogged in great shuddering bursts. “No…” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “No, no, no—”

He dropped to his knees at the edge of the grave, his hands clawing into the cold dirt. A clump broke apart in his gloved fist, crumbling between his trembling fingers as if the earth itself were mocking him. His eyes were wide, frantic, searching the emptiness for something, anything, but there was nothing. Nothing but violation.

Behind him, Loopey gasped—a sharp, broken sound that cut through the frozen stillness. Her hands flew to her mouth, her eyes brimming as she took in the desecration of her brother’s resting place.

María reacted instinctively. Her hand went to her side, pulling her pistol from the holster beneath her coat. She pivoted, scanning the cemetery, her stance hard and trained. Her heart raced, but her aim was steady. Whoever had done this might still be near.

The others stood in stunned silence. Fenton’s voice broke it, a ragged whisper. “Who… who would do something like this?” His normally buoyant tone was hollow, stripped of all energy.

Neptunia’s hood turned slightly, her voice grim, low. “Take your pick. Between the Justice Ducks and Darkwing, there’s no shortage of enemies. Any one of them would relish this.”

The snowflakes kept falling, silent and steady, blanketing the horror in a mockery of peace. The graveyard around them seemed to close in, the stillness suffocating.

But all Drake could hear was the rush of his own blood in his ears as his body shook, his fists grinding into the dirt. His friend—his brother—violated in death. His grave, stolen. His body, taken.

The world itself felt like it tilted in that moment. Nothing was sacred anymore.

María holstered her gun and moved to Drake's side; the sight of him kneeling at the broken earth was almost worse than the grave itself—shoulders trembling, his head bowed like the weight of the world pressed against his neck. She lowered herself to one knee, laying a steadying hand on his shoulder, the leather of his suit chilled beneath her palm.

“Drake,” she said firmly, her voice quiet but carrying the clipped authority of a detective. “Don’t touch anything. This is a crime scene now. I’ll call St. Canard PD, get forensics here, lift prints, track boot patterns—something.”

But it was clear from his glassy stare that he barely heard her. His eyes never left the violated grave, the spray-painted threat bleeding down cold marble. His lips moved, barely forming words. “Who… who would do this?” The question was broken, not directed at her or anyone else. It was a prayer, a curse, a plea for an answer that would not come.

The silence snapped like a bone under strain.

“DAMMIT!”

The roar came from Joey. His voice cracked through the air like thunder, primal and raw. He bent low, his massive hands curling around the trunk of a tree that had been growing peacefully in the cemetery for decades. With a guttural snarl, Joey wrenched it free, roots snapping like gunfire, dirt flying. Snow and soil cascaded in clumps as the tree ripped up and out of the frozen ground. With a strength no normal mallard should possess, he hurled it. The massive thing sailed into the gray sky, vanishing over the headstones until the faint crash of its landing echoed from blocks away.

The sound reverberated through the cemetery, and in its wake, Joey’s body changed. His chest heaved, suit seams tearing as thick, jagged stegosaurus plates erupted in a line down his back, shredding cloth. His eyes burned molten yellow, his beak pulled back in a half-snarl, half-roar. The quiet, goofy duck they knew was slipping, replaced by the rage of Stegmutt.

“Joey!” Neptunia was at him in an instant, her boots sliding in the churned snow. She planted herself in front of his looming frame, pressing both webbed hands firmly against his chest. Her voice was low, calm, like waves soothing jagged rock. “Breathe. In and out. Do not let it take control. Focus. Right here. With me.”

Joey’s breaths came ragged at first, steam pouring from his nostrils in the cold. His clawed hands flexed, his massive tail twitching, every inch of him screaming for violence. Yet Neptunia didn’t flinch, didn’t move back. Her steady gaze held him as surely as chains.

And then—another collapse.

A gasp broke from Loopey’s lips as her knees buckled, the shock finally shattering through her composure. Her white-feathered body crumpled into the snow like paper folding under its own weight.

“Loopey!” Fenton was there in a heartbeat, sliding down onto both knees to catch her before she hit the ground. He pulled her carefully into his arms, supporting her head against his chest. His voice shook as he tried to comfort her. “It’s alright—it’s alright, I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

María’s eyes darted between the chaos unraveling around them: Joey’s monstrous form looming, restrained only by Neptunia’s calming presence. Fenton crouched low, holding Loopey, murmuring soft reassurances. And Drake—Drake still knelt at the grave, frozen, his hand stained with dirt that crumbled from his glove, his eyes locked on the void where his brother-in-arms should have rested.

Shock. Terror. Rage. Grief.

The emotions swirled and clashed like a storm trapped in the cemetery walls, pressing down on all of them, stealing the air from their lungs.

ALL HEROES WILL DIE.

His hand clenched around another fistful of dirt, tighter this time, as if he could crush the meaning out of it. But the rage, the pain, the guilt—it only grew sharper.

Drake’s jaw tightened as he rose from the dirt, his jacket fluttering slightly in the breeze. His beak ground audibly as he snarled, voice low at first but quickly rising with an old, familiar fire.

“We can’t just stand here!” His eyes blazed as they darted from face to face, all of them shadowed by the snowfall. “Whoever did this is out there laughing at us! We need to hit the streets, find out who’s back in town. Steelbeak? Quackerjack? Taurus Bulba? Someone has to be behind this!” His gloved hand jabbed toward the grave. “Check the prisons, check the hospitals—who’s still locked up, who’s not—we track them down now!”

The words came out in a rush, an old rhythm he hadn’t spoken in years, the cadence of a commander rallying his team. He rattled off orders as if muscle memory had taken control: Fenton to dig through old contacts, Joey to scout the city, Neptunia to monitor the waterfront. He was pacing, gesturing sharply, voice echoing over the headstones.

But when he finally paused—expecting movement, waiting for the quick assent of comrades ready to act—what he got instead was silence. Blank, exhausted expressions stared back at him. No one moved.

Drake froze, his chest heaving, the silence pressing down heavier than the snow. His beak parted slightly. “What’s wrong?” His voice cracked with disbelief. “Why aren’t you moving? Why aren’t we going?”

Fenton shook his head slowly, his arm still wrapped protectively around the unconscious Loopey. His voice came quiet, heavy with a weight Drake didn’t want to hear. “Drake… we’re retired.” He smoothed a feather away from Loopey’s face, his own eyes haunted. “We’re not the Justice Ducks anymore. Our best option isn’t to chase shadows—it’s to head to ground. Whoever’s doing this is making it personal. If it’s revenge they want… then we need to make ourselves scarce.”

“No—no, that’s—” Drake’s protest was cut short as Joey, still breathing hard from his near-transformation, stepped forward. The glow had faded from his eyes, the jagged plates retreating back into nothing. His ruined suit hung loose on him now, sweat streaking down his temples.

“Fenton’s right,” Joey muttered, his voice deep but subdued. “I’ve worked too hard to keep my rage in check, to keep that thing inside me on a leash. I can’t lose it all again—not over this. Not when it could just be some washed-up villain pulling a sick joke. The cops can handle it. That’s their job now.” He tugged at the shreds of his collar, shaking his head. “I’m not going back. Not to that life.”

Drake turned sharply to Neptunia, the last anchor of hope. His eyes were wild, pleading. “But you—you’re still active. You still fight. You have to see what this means.”

Her hood shadowed her face, but her lips tightened, her eyes calm and distant like the deep ocean she called home. She shook her head once, deliberate, unyielding. “The dealings of surface dwellers are not my concern,” she said, her voice cool and measured. “When my seas are under siege, I fight. When my people are threatened, I rise. But the grave of one land-born hero? That is your fight, not mine.”

The words landed like hammer blows. Drake staggered back a step, his gaze sweeping over them: Fenton clinging to Loopey, Joey shrinking back into himself, Neptunia aloof, removed. The once-mighty Justice Ducks stood before him now as shadows of their former selves—scattered, weakened, unwilling.

Drake’s blood boiled as he looked at them all, his hands curling into fists at his sides. His chest rose and fell sharply with every breath, his mind racing through the countless battles they had fought together: nights when the odds had been impossible, days when they had bled side by side, moments when they had trusted each other with their very lives. He thought of the villains they had faced—Negaduck’s endless schemes, Bushroot’s merciless cunning, horrors that had clawed their way into St. Canard. And through it all, they had been together.

They had been the Justice Ducks.

But now...?

And in that instant, his heart ached most for Launchpad. Drake could see him—Launchpad’s goofy smile, his easy laugh, the way he would have clapped a hand on Drake’s shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, D.W., we’ll figure it out.” If this had been any of their graves desecrated, Launchpad would’ve been there, no hesitation, no fear. Launchpad never wavered in loyalty.

But he wasn’t here. And these others, the ones who had called themselves his teammates, his brothers and sisters in arms… they stood frozen, paralyzed, unwilling.

He wanted to scream. To tear into them with every ounce of fury building in his chest. To accuse them of cowardice, of betrayal, of forgetting what they once swore to protect. He wanted to remind them of brotherhood, of sacrifice, of the people who depended on them. His throat burned with words unsaid.

But when he looked again at their faces...

...suddenly, screaming seemed pointless.

So he turned away. His voice came low, bitter, just loud enough to cut through the still air as he walked away from them.

“Cowards.”

The word stung them more than a yell ever could.

Behind him, Loopey began to stir in Fenton’s arms, groaning faintly as her eyelids fluttered. Fenton only pulled her closer, protective, while Joey looked down at his own trembling hands. María’s eyes narrowed, her heart tugged in two directions—toward the crumbling Justice Ducks, and toward the man storming away from them.

She made her choice.

“I’ll go talk to him,” she said firmly, already striding after Drake.

The cold air bit at her cheeks as she caught up to him, stepping in front of his path and planting her hand firmly against his chest. He stopped, startled, his glare burning into her.

“What the hell was that all about?” she demanded, her voice sharp with both anger and concern.

Drake’s composure cracked. The fury inside him burst through, raw and unfiltered. “They’ve abandoned me!” he roared, his voice echoing off the gravestones. “Abandoned what we stood for! Abandoned Launchpad!” His hands shook at his sides, every word dripping with rage and grief. “He deserves better than this—better than them walking away like it never mattered!”

María’s heart clenched at the sight of him unraveling. Without thinking, she grabbed him by the front of his jacket with both hands, forcing him to meet her eyes. Her grip was strong, unyielding, even as his chest heaved against her palms.

“I’m still here,” she shot back, her tone fierce but steady. “Do you hear me, Drake? I’m still here. I’m with you. If no one else wants to fight, then fine—let them crawl away. We’ll go find Reiko. She’ll help us. We’ll figure this out together.”

But instead of the relief she expected, Drake gave a short, bitter laugh. His lip curled, his voice turning harsh with suspicion.

“Reiko…” He scoffed, his eyes narrowing. “Kind of convenient she’s not here, isn’t it?”

María froze, her stomach twisting as the words landed. Her eyes widened, horror creeping into her face.

“What… what are you saying, Drake?” she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the falling snow.

Drake’s whole body trembled as the words poured out of him, raw and jagged, like glass tearing his throat on the way out. His voice was hoarse, bitter, brimming with venom—yet underneath it all was a pulse of pain so deep it nearly hollowed him.

“My breakup with Reiko wasn’t some clean cut, María. It was ugly. Ugly.” His hands gestured wildly, one clenching into a fist, the other tearing through the air. “There was hate—so much hate—between us. Every word, every look, like a spark over a powder keg. And now—now suddenly she shows up last night?” His voice cracked into a disbelieving laugh, high and bitter. “All smiles, flirting, charming. Oh gee, what a surprise! And then, oh, isn’t it just perfect? We wind up in bed together.”

His head snapped toward the cemetery gates, toward where Reiko wasn’t, his eyes sharp and glinting. “And now she’s not here, when Launchpad’s grave is ripped open, when someone sends a message written in blood and hate? She knew, María. She knew when and where we’d be. She knows who we are, our identities, our weaknesses.”

His laugh now was hollow, scraping, more self-directed than aimed at her. “And I fell for it. Fell for it like the stupid, broken fool I am. Just because you and I couldn’t keep our damn pants on!” His hand went to his face, dragging down, exhausted and furious in equal measure. “God, I’m pathetic.”

The words had barely left his mouth when María moved.

The slap cracked like a gunshot in the snowy quiet.

Drake staggered a half-step, his cheek blazing, stunned into silence. He blinked at her as if he couldn’t quite process what had just happened.

María stood before him, trembling with fury, her hand still half-raised, her chest heaving. Her dark eyes were lit with fire, and her voice when it came was a whipcrack.

“How fucking dare you!”

Her words echoed off the gravestones, sharp and scalding. She stepped closer, fists balled, every inch of her radiating fury.

“Your paranoia is eating you alive, Drake! It’s twisting everything until all you see is betrayal! How long has it been since you actually slept? Three nights? Five? A week?” She jabbed a finger into his chest, punctuating every word. “You’re unraveling in front of me and blaming the only person who has ever cared enough to still stand by you!”

Drake opened his mouth, but no words came. He only stared, his face a mixture of anger and shame, his breath fogging in the frigid air.

María shook her head, her own chest rising and falling like she had just run a mile. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to steady before she spoke again. Her voice lowered, but it carried weight—an intimacy that cut sharper than her fury.

“What we shared last night—me, you, Reiko—that wasn’t some distraction. That wasn’t a ploy. That was real.”

Drake’s eyes darted, conflicted, but María pressed on, her voice softening, gentling, yet no less firm.

“I saw her holding you as you cried, Drake.”

His head jerked slightly at that, his breath hitching.

“I heard you, saw you,” María continued, her tone hushed now, laced with memory. “Naked, freezing, broken… and she held you. Like you were the most fragile thing in the world. And I saw it. I saw her. That wasn’t manipulation. That wasn’t some villain’s trick.” She stepped closer, so close now her breath mingled with his. “That was genuine. Every tear, every shiver, every word she whispered to you—it was real.”

Drake’s lips parted, but all he managed was a rasp, his chest tightening as her words cut through the armor of suspicion and rage. His eyes glistened, though he tried—oh, how he tried—to blink it away.

"Now," María hissed, "You either unfuck yourself or I am going to do it for you, you understand me, pendejo?"

Drake lowered his head, the fight bleeding out of him all at once. His shoulders slumped, his fists unclenched, and for a long moment the only sound between them was the soft hiss of falling snow, settling gently over gravestones that had already borne too much grief.

His voice came low, ragged. “María…” He swallowed hard, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

He dared to lift his gaze just enough to meet hers. His eyes were tired, raw, and rimmed red, as though the emotions he carried were gouging trenches into him. “I shouldn’t have said those things. About Reiko. About us. I—” He broke off, shaking his head, pressing a hand to his brow. “I let my paranoia talk louder than my reason. And I hurt you. I didn’t mean to, but I did.”

María’s jaw tightened. She crossed her arms over her chest, her breath curling in the frosty air. “You think ‘sorry’ erases the way you just accused me of… of what, exactly? Of using you? Of betraying you?” Her voice cracked with equal parts anger and pain. “I’ve put everything into standing by you, Drake. I’ve watched you unravel, night after night, and I’ve stayed. And the first chance you get, you call what we have a mistake? You think that’s something I can just forget?”

Drake winced. Her words landed harder than the slap had. He stepped closer, cautiously, his hands lifting as if reaching for her but hesitating, unsure if he even deserved the touch. “No,” he said quietly, firmly. “You’re right. It was cruel. And unfair. I know better than that. You’ve been my anchor when I’ve been drifting into the dark, María. You’ve held me when I was ready to break apart. And instead of seeing that, I… lashed out.” His voice cracked, vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I need it.”

María looked away, struggling. Her breath came uneven, her emotions at war—anger demanding she push him back, love urging her to pull him close. She turned her face up to the cloudy sky, watching the snow fall, listening to its silence press against them both.

Finally, she exhaled, sharp and shaky. “You’re damn lucky I love you, Drake Mallard.” She turned her gaze back to him, eyes hard but softening. “Because otherwise, I’d walk away right here, right now. I don’t forgive you easily. Not after what you just said. But…” She stepped closer, closing the space between them. “…I see the man in front of me. I see the guilt, the grief. And I know where it’s really coming from. So, yes—I forgive you.”

Drake’s breath hitched, and the relief in his face was almost painful to watch. He nodded quickly, like a man afraid the moment might shatter if he moved too slowly. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you, María. I swear—I’ll never doubt you again.”

She reached up, finally, and touched his cheek where she’d slapped him. Her thumb brushed lightly over the reddened skin under his feathers, gentling what had been a violent blow. “You’d better not,” she said softly, though there was still a warning in her tone. "I know where you live."

Drake covered her hand with his own, pressing it against his cheek, grounding himself in her touch. He let the silence linger a heartbeat longer before straightening, his jaw firming with renewed resolve.

“We can’t do this alone,” he said. His voice was steadier now, carrying that familiar edge of determination. “We need Reiko. We need her help. Whatever’s coming, whatever monster dug up Launchpad—it won’t stop here. And she’s the only one I trust to still fight beside us.”

María studied him, searching his face, and finally nodded. “Then let’s find her.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Six: Firestarter

The St. Canard Police Department loomed before them like a monument from another age, a massive art deco structure of steel and pale stone, its façade lined with tall, narrow windows framed in brass. Bold geometric angles crowned the roofline, and carved reliefs of stoic owls and eagles—symbols of vigilance and justice—watched over the wide steps leading to the entrance. Snow gathered in the corners of the steps, trampled into slush by a steady stream of officers coming and going.

María pulled her sedan up to the curb, putting it in park. Drake sat in the passenger seat, silent, his gloved hands clasped in his lap. He hadn’t said much since leaving the cemetery, and even now he only stirred when she touched his arm lightly, nodding toward the doors. Together, they ascended the stairs and pushed through the heavy brass-trimmed doors.

Inside, the lobby stretched wide, with tall ceilings paneled in polished wood. The tile floor was an elegant black-and-cream checkerboard, worn smooth by decades of boots. Murals of St. Canard’s skyline adorned the walls, scenes of civic pride that felt oddly hollow now. A large oak desk sat at the center, behind which perched a golden-furred sergeant with sharp eyes and a disarming smile. Her uniform was pressed to perfection, badge gleaming.

María led the way, her feet clicking softly on the tiles. “Good afternoon,” she said with practiced professionalism. “We’re here to see Inspector Tezuka.”

The desk sergeant’s smile widened knowingly. “You’re in luck—she’s on-site. I’ll call her down right away.” She picked up the phone beside her, already dialing.

María and Drake stepped aside to wait near one of the lobby’s tall windows. Light filtered through the frosted glass panes, casting pale shadows across the floor. For a long moment, they said nothing, the weight of the desecrated grave still pressing heavily between them. Then María shifted, glancing at Drake.

Her voice came quieter, gentler. “Drake… you never told me. How did Launchpad die?”

Drake froze. His gaze drifted to the floor, his reflection faint in the tiles. He clenched his jaw, trying to swallow down the bitterness, but the question had dug into him too deeply to ignore. Slowly, he raised his head, eyes far away, staring at something only he could see.

“It was Negaduck,” he said at last, his voice low and tight. “My nemesis. My mirror. Everything I fight to protect, twisted into something cruel. We’d been chasing each other across the city for weeks, one step ahead, one step behind. It all came to a head at the Opera House.”

He exhaled sharply, the memory spilling free now. “There was a gala performance that night. Negaduck staged it perfectly—packed house, full of innocents, and he had enough explosives wired under the stage to bring the whole damn building down. I confronted him high above the stage, in the catwalks. The fight… it was brutal. Steel beams, cables snapping, the whole place shaking under us. Every punch we traded was one step closer to disaster.”

His hand trembled, and María reached out, brushing her fingers against his. Drake didn’t stop.

“During the fight, Negaduck cut loose one of the chandeliers. It came crashing down toward the crowd, the people below who had no idea what was about to hit them.” Drake’s throat tightened, his voice breaking. “I was too far away. I couldn’t get there in time. But Launchpad…”

He shut his eyes. He could still see it—the flurry of motion, the desperate cry.

“Launchpad dove,” Drake whispered, his voice raw. “He threw himself across the stage, and… he put his own body between them and the falling wreckage. The chandelier came down on him, María. It crushed him. And while I—while I screamed his name, Negaduck laughed.”

His fists clenched, white-knuckled. “I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed Negaduck, and I didn’t stop until I’d beaten the life out of him. Negaduck died there, in the opera house. By my hands. I punched him until my hands were broken, and all I could hear was screaming as I punched, and punched. By the time I realized what I was doing, when my fists were covered in bone and bits of brain matter, I figured out where the screaming was coming from... it was me.”

The silence that followed felt endless. The murmur of phones ringing and officers shuffling paperwork in the background seemed impossibly distant.

Drake’s voice fell to a whisper. “And Launchpad… he was gone before the paramedics even arrived. He died saving everyone. Saving me.”

María’s chest tightened. She reached up, cupping his cheek, forcing him to look at her. His eyes were wet, rimmed with pain, but also burning with something else—guilt that never let go.

“You can’t carry that alone,” she told him softly. “You can’t keep bleeding for it, Drake. He chose that sacrifice. You can honor him, but don’t let it destroy you.”

Drake shut his eyes, leaning into her hand for the briefest moment, letting the warmth ground him against the cold memory.

Just then, the desk sergeant called across the lobby: “Inspector Tezuka will be with you in just a moment.”

Drake straightened, wiping at his eyes, trying to reclaim the mantle of composure. But María could still see the crack in his armor, the wound that would never fully heal.

The sound of footfalls echoed on the marble steps at the far end of the lobby. Both Drake and María turned just as Inspector Reiko Tezuka came into view, her dark hair sleek and sharp against the high collar of her coat. She moved with a professional calm, but the moment her eyes landed on the pair of them, her usual confidence softened into warmth.

“Drake, María,” she greeted, offering a small smile. “Didn't expect you two so—” She stopped. Her sharp eyes flicked from María’s strained composure to the hollow look etched into Drake’s face. Whatever words she had ready died on her tongue. Her smile vanished. “Hey. What happened? What’s going on?”

Drake opened his mouth but faltered, the words catching in his throat. María stepped in, her voice steady but grim. “The cemetery. Launchpad’s grave…” She swallowed, forcing herself to continue. “It was desecrated. His coffin is gone. His body—taken. And there was a message sprayed across the headstone.”

Reiko’s breath hitched, her hand rising to cover her mouth. “No…”

"All Heroes Will Die," Drake’s voice broke through, raw with anger. “All the old enemies we’ve put away, the lives we risked—it’s starting again. The others, Fenton, Joey, even Neptunia—they want to crawl into their shells, hide, pretend this never happened.” He met her gaze, his eyes blazing despite the tears threatening to form. “But I can’t. I won’t. I need your help, Reiko. Whoever did this, whoever sent that message, they won’t stop until more graves are filled.”

For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of his plea. Then Reiko closed the distance in two strides and wrapped her arms around him. Drake stiffened at first, but then his hands gripped the back of her coat, holding on as though it were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

Her voice was low but fierce against his ear. “You have my help. Whatever it takes. I swear it.”

She drew back, brushing his shoulders as if to steady him, then glanced at María. “Come on. Both of you. We can’t solve this standing here.”

She led them across the lobby, up the wide staircase, and into the upper halls. The atmosphere changed the moment they stepped into the bullpen: rows of desks cluttered with case files and coffee-stained paperwork, detectives hunched over computers or flicking through reports. A wall of windows let in pale daylight, dust motes swirling in the beams. The air smelled faintly of old paper, ink, and the bitter tang of overbrewed coffee.

Reiko guided them past it all to a side room lined with tall steel filing cabinets with a table in the center. She reached into her coat, pulling out a ring of keys, the metallic jingle punctuating her words. “We’ve kept tabs on them. All of them. Every villain that’s crossed your path—or ours. Most are in prison, some dead. But we’ll go through the files, check who’s accounted for and who’s not.”

She glanced over her shoulder at Drake, her eyes narrowing with determination. “If someone’s bold enough to defile Launchpad’s grave, they’re sending a message. And I intend to send one back.”

Drake’s jaw tightened, his fists curling at his sides. For the first time since leaving the cemetery, there was something other than grief burning in his gaze. Resolve.

“Good,” he said. “Then let’s find them.”

Reiko stacked a heavy pile of files onto the center table, the manila folders worn at the edges from years of being opened, closed, and opened again. She flicked one open, sliding it toward María, then another toward Drake. Soon the three of them sat in a small circle, the faint hum of typing in the bullpen beyond the door.

María leafed through a folder, her brows knitting together as she read aloud. “Bugmaster. Uses experimental insect serums to control swarms.” She set it aside and picked up another, shaking her head in disbelief. “Camille Chameleon. Shape-shifter, master of disguise. And—Pokerface?” She raised her eyes at that one, baffled. “Really?”

Reiko gave a short laugh. “Oh, him. He liked throwing playing cards. Not particularly dangerous—like, at all.” She smirked and leaned back in her chair. “Trust me, St. Canard’s produced its fair share of clowns and nightmares both. Some silly, some terrifying. I’ve always thought this city’s a magnet for trouble.”

María shut the folder and rubbed her temple. “Duckburg has its share of insanity too, but this?” She gestured at the stack towering in front of her. “This is something else. Your city seems like a hotbed for villains.”

“Maybe,” Reiko said, one corner of her mouth twitching. “But crime exists everywhere.”

María couldn’t argue. She just gave a short nod, lips pressed tight.

Then Drake’s voice cut in, low and bitter. He had been staring down at the folder in front of him, but not turning a single page. “It’s my fault.”

Both women looked up at him. He raised his head slowly, eyes haunted. “The escalation. The chaos. I put on the mask. I took to the streets. I wanted to be a symbol, to strike fear into criminals, to inspire the people. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Symbols cut both ways. If you can inspire good… you can inspire evil, too.”

He leaned forward, voice growing harsher, more intense. “When I was Darkwing, I thought I was the answer to this city’s problems. But the more I fought, the more they rose up to meet me. Criminals started innovating, competing, going bigger, louder. It wasn’t long before St. Canard was swarming with lunatics trying to make a name for themselves by taking me down. Maybe I didn’t protect this city. Maybe I damned it.”

A sharp slap of paper against the table broke his spiral. Reiko had dropped the file she was holding, her eyes blazing. “No. Don’t you dare think that way.”

Drake blinked at her, startled.

Reiko leaned forward, her voice firm, controlled, but vibrating with intensity. “Those criminals always existed, Drake. Always. Petty thieves, corrupt businessmen, maniacs waiting for their moment. You didn’t create them by putting on a mask. You confronted them. You stopped them. Do you think Bugmaster wouldn’t have unleashed her plagues if you weren’t around? That Camille Chameleon wouldn’t have infiltrated half the city? You think Negaduck wouldn’t have done everything in his power to tear St. Canard apart?” She jabbed a finger at the folders. “They existed long before you, and they’re still out there long after you retired. Don’t confuse cause with consequence.”

Drake’s jaw tightened. “But it’s undeniable. My presence escalated things. The villains didn’t just want power anymore—they wanted me. They wanted to be the ones to beat Darkwing Duck. I put a target on this city.”

María interjected, her voice softer, cautious. “But how many people would be dead if you hadn’t been here? How many plots would have gone unchecked?”

Reiko nodded sharply. “Exactly. You want to know the truth? The city didn’t need less Darkwing Duck. It needed more of him. You were one man against a tidal wave of madness, and you still held the line for years. Don’t twist that into guilt.”

Drake’s hands curled into fists on the table. He shook his head, stubbornness hardening his features. “And yet the wave always rose higher. No matter how many I stopped, more came. Like a beacon drawing moths to a flame.”

Reiko leaned in, refusing to back down. “Or like a lighthouse guiding ships away from the rocks.”

For a long moment, silence crackled between them, heavy and charged. Drake stared at her, then down at the folders again. His breathing slowed, the fire in his eyes dimming, replaced with something harder to define—doubt, yes, but also the faint flicker of belief that maybe, just maybe, she was right.

María glanced between them, her chest tight. She could see it: two people who had carried the same fight in different ways, colliding over the same wound. Neither was entirely wrong. Neither was entirely right. But both knew one thing for certain—St. Canard’s villains weren’t gone.

And someone out there had just made it personal.

Then, the bullpen had gone quiet in that uneasy way where every sound seemed too loud. Phones rang unanswered. Typewriters and keyboards sat idle. The low hum of fluorescent lights felt oppressive. A young officer appeared at the side door, pale and jittery, his voice broke through like a stone tossed into still water.

“Inspector Tezuka,” he called, breathless, “you… you need to see this. Right now.”

Reiko turned from the table of files, her brows knitting together. She was half a second from brushing him off—there were still no leads—but one look at his face stopped her. The kid’s eyes were wide, his throat working hard as he swallowed.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice sharp but controlled.

“You just… you just need to come. Please.”

Drake and María exchanged a look before rising with her. Together they followed the officer out into the main bullpen, where an unusual hush pressed over the room. Uniforms and plainclothes detectives alike were huddled before the computer monitors at desks.

The crowd parted at one desk as Reiko approached, her presence enough to make space. Drake and María flanked her. On the screen, a news anchor stared grimly at the camera.

“We have just received an anonymous video,” she said, voice low and strained, “and we must warn you—viewer discretion is strongly advised.”

The feed cut. Static burst across the screen before stabilizing into a grainy, washed-out image.

The view opened on a cavernous industrial space—corrugated steel walls, concrete floors slick with moisture, and hanging chains swaying lazily from rails overhead. A compressor hummed somewhere out of sight, the sound throbbing like a pulse. Light spilled in from humming fluorescent fixtures, turning everything jaundiced.

In the center of the frame was a single chair.

And in it—Herb Muddlefoot.

He was bound tight with coarse rope, wrists lashed behind him, ankles cinched to the chair legs. His shirt was torn, his face mottled with bruises, his eyes wide with terror. A filthy rag gagged his beak, forcing his breath to come in panicked wheezes through his nose.

The camera lingered on him, close enough to catch the trembling of his jowls, the quiver of his chest as he fought to keep control. The image was unbearable, suffocating in its intimacy.

Then came the sound.

Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.

Heavy boots scraped the concrete floor. Pacing. Circling. Herb’s eyes darted desperately, trying to follow, but the tormentor stayed out of sight. The camera shook faintly, as if the unseen figure holding it were laughing.

And then came the voice.

It wasn’t natural. It wasn’t even human. Distorted, shredded by some kind of device that ground each word into a metallic rasp, turning mockery into menace.

“Well, well, well…” the voice drawled, dripping venom through static. “Who do we have here? All alone, bound up neat and tidy… like a pig waiting for slaughter.”

The boots stopped behind Herb. A gloved hand appeared from the shadows, rough and black with grime, yanking the gag from Herb’s mouth. He coughed, gagging on his own fear, his eyes swimming with tears.

“Now, piggie,” the voice purred. “Let’s start with something simple. Tell the nice people who you are.”

Herb licked his cracked beak, stammering, “M-my name is Herbert Muddlefoot, Sr.”

“And what do you do, Herb?”

His voice cracked. “I… I’m a door-to-door Quackerware salesman.”

The camera tilted. A metal jerry can slid into frame. The cap shrieked as it twisted off, the sound metallic, grating.

“Good,” the voice growled. “Very good. But let’s make it… interesting.”

The can tipped.

Gasoline splashed across Herb’s shirt, soaking the fabric until it clung to him. The sharp, acrid stench all but oozed through the screen, saturating the air. Herb whimpered, shivering, the liquid dripping from his chin into a dark pool spreading on the floor.

The chuckle that followed was broken, mechanical—like laughter fed through a meat grinder.

“Now, Herb…” the tormentor hissed, circling close enough that the outline of their hooded figure blurred at the edge of the frame. “Tell them something else. Tell them about your neighbor.”

Herb froze. His eyes widened. He shook his head violently. “Please… please, I can’t—”

The voice sharpened, jagged as broken glass. “SAY IT!”

Herb’s resolve shattered. His whole body quaked, tears running freely down his cheeks. “M-my neighbor… was Darkwing Duck. Drake Mallard.”

The bullpen erupted in gasps. One officer swore aloud. Another staggered back, pale as though the words had struck a physical blow.

Drake stood frozen. His fists trembled at his sides, nails biting into his palms. His breath hitched. Years of secrecy, of sacrifice, torn away by a single sentence from a broken man.

On screen, the distorted voice laughed again, the sound warped into something inhuman. “That’s right. Darkwing Duck… is Drake Mallard. St. Canard’s so-called savior. And now? Now I’ve got his neighbor. His friend.”

The camera zoomed in on Herb, who sobbed openly, gasoline glistening on his feathers, pooling beneath the chair.

The tormentor’s gloved hand lifted into frame, holding a photograph. Drake Mallard. Plainclothes. Ordinary. Vulnerable.

“This man,” the garbled voice spat, metallic and cruel, “is the reason you suffer. Drake Mallard has poisoned this city with his vanity, his masquerade, his lies. Tonight, his reckoning comes. Unless his body hangs lifeless from the flagpole at City Hall, St. Canard will bleed.”

Herb whimpered, rocking helplessly in the chair as the liquid dripped onto the floor.

“In five minutes,” the tormentor intoned, voice like a death knell, “the lights will die. Power. Heat. Phones. Internet. Your city will choke in darkness. And every hour Drake Mallard still breathes, more will perish. A hospital reduced to ash. A school burned alive. Your homes, your children, your futures—gone. All because of him.”

Then, at last, the tormentor stepped into view. Cloaked in black, hood drawn low over a crude mask of stitched fabric, their presence filled the screen. In one hand, a box of matches. They shook it once, the rattling echoing in the cavernous room like bones in a jar.

With slow, deliberate precision, they struck not one match, but several at once. A sudden burst of flame bloomed in their gloved hand, a cluster of orange tongues licking the air, reflected in Herb’s wide, horrified eyes.

The voice spoke again, resonant, solemn, quoting words born from damnation itself:

“Through me you pass into the city of woe:
Through me you pass into eternal pain:
Through me among the people lost for aye.
Justice the founder of my fabric mov’d:
To rear me was the task of power divine,
Supremest wisdom, and primeval love.
Before me things create were none, save things
Eternal, and eternal I endure.
All hope abandon, ye who enter here.”

With an almost casual flick of the wrist, the tormentor let the burning matches fall.

The gasoline ignited instantly, the floor erupting into a roaring inferno. Flames surged upward, devouring the chair, licking across Herb’s soaked clothing. His scream ripped through the speakers—raw, piercing, unfiltered terror—as the fire consumed him.

The camera held, cruelly, long enough for the image to sear itself into every witness’s mind. Then, without warning, the feed cut to static.

Back in the bullpen, the news anchor’s voice returned, strained, unsteady. “We… we apologize. The remaining footage is far too graphic to air. Citizens of St. Canard are urged to stay indoors and await instructions from authorities.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. No officer spoke. A few covered their mouths; others stood frozen, pale with shock, their eyes wide and glistening.

Drake’s fists trembled at his sides, his body locked tight, his breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts. His vision swam with fire. Herb's screams clawed at his ears, tearing at his heart. He had seen death before, but never like this.

Never so cruel.

The bullpen erupted into pandemonium.

Officers shouted over each other, phones rang off the hook, and the clatter of boots pounded against tile. Someone barked for riot gear. Another screamed about securing hospitals and schools. Radios crackled with garbled orders, calls for backup, for barricades, for every available officer to hit the streets. The air reeked of tension, sweat, and sheer panic as commanders tried to impose order on chaos.

But amid the storm of movement, Drake didn’t move. He stood rooted to the spot, his eyes glassy, his jaw tight, the noise of the bullpen nothing more than a dull roar in his ears. His mind wasn’t here. It was in a backyard bathed in sunlight, the scent of grilling burgers in the air. Herb’s laugh, loud and simple. God, his family... Honker’s shy smile as he showed off some gadget or school project. Tank shoving a second hotdog in his mouth while his mother scolded him. Drake remembered sitting there, cape off, mask tucked away, just a neighbor with a paper plate in his lap and people who welcomed him as family.

Now, all of what was Herb was ash.

He thought of the gasoline, the fire, the screaming. He had suffered because of him. He had died because of him. He had brought this curse down on him the moment he decided to put on the mask, to play the hero. Maybe he wasn’t a hero. Maybe he had been nothing more than a selfish fool who mistook his ego for destiny. Perhaps, he thought with a bitter twist in his chest, it was time to pay for his sins.

“Drake!” María’s voice cut through, raw with urgency as she grabbed his sleeve and yanked hard. “We need to leave—right now!”

Her eyes blazed, demanding he look at her, forcing him to the present. He blinked, the bullpen’s chaos rushing back in, but still he hesitated, weighed down by guilt.

Reiko appeared beside them, her face pale but her composure intact, though her voice carried an edge sharp enough to slice steel. “She’s right. You can’t stay here. We move, now.”

Drake muttered, hollow, “Herb… he didn’t deserve this. None of it. I—this is my fault. I brought this on him. If I had never—”

“Focus!” María snapped, her hands now gripping his jacket, shaking him. “You want to wallow in guilt, do it later! Right now, more people are going to die if you stand here feeling sorry for yourself!”

Her words hit harder than the slap she’d given him earlier. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Reiko looked over her shoulder, scanning the bullpen as officers swarmed in every direction. Her sharp gaze locked on two uniforms lingering near the far wall, not moving like the rest. They weren’t scrambling, weren’t panicking. They were watching. Watching him.

Her voice dropped low, urgent. “We need to get somewhere safe.”

María frowned, exasperated. “Safer than a police station? Where else would—”

Then she saw it too, the way Reiko’s eyes had narrowed toward the two officers. The stillness of their posture in the chaos. The way their hands hovered too close to their belts, their gazes too fixed. There was intent in their eyes. Not fear. Not panic. Purpose.

And that purpose was pointed squarely at Drake.

Reiko didn’t waste a second. She grabbed Drake by the arm with one hand, María with the other, and pushed them both toward the nearest door. Her voice was sharp but controlled, “Move. Now.”

They shoved through the bullpen doors, the chaos of shouting officers fading behind them. The echo of their feet clattered against the tile hallway. Drake glanced back once—and there they were. The two officers who had been staring at him like wolves among sheep. Their strides were deliberate, purposeful, their hands still brushing against their holsters.

Reiko didn’t slow down. She veered right, shoulder-checking the heavy steel bar of an emergency exit door. It crashed open with a metallic clang, revealing the dim, narrow stairwell spiraling downward. “Go!” she hissed, shoving Drake through first, María right behind. She pulled the door closed with one hand, buying seconds, maybe less, before their pursuers would come bursting through.

The stairwell smelled of dust and mildew, echoing with the hurried rhythm of their descent. Their footfalls bounced off the concrete walls, each step louder than the last. Drake stumbled once, catching himself on the railing, but Reiko was right there, steadying him with a firm hand between his shoulder blades.

“María,” Reiko whispered as they thundered downward, her eyes scanning the shadows below. “You armed?”

María’s coat opened just enough to reveal the black grip of her 9mm tucked neatly into a shoulder holster. She nodded once, though her jaw was tight. “Always. But I’m not shooting cops, Reiko.”

“They might not give you a choice,” Reiko muttered grimly.

The words had barely left her lips when they hit the bottom landing. The door swung open before they even touched it. A broad figure stepped into the frame—uniform pressed, shotgun gleaming in the pale stairwell light. He raised it without hesitation, the sound of the pump action filling the confined space like thunder.

“Back away,” he barked, though his voice wavered with tension.

Reiko swore under her breath. Her own pistol was in her hand in a heartbeat, María’s out an instant later. They flanked Drake automatically, protective instinct taking over, their bodies tight shields against the sudden threat.

Behind them, the stairwell door above slammed open, boots pounding downward. The two pursuing officers appeared on the stairs, sidearms drawn, their barrels aimed steadily at the trio below.

It was a standoff in concrete and steel.

Reiko’s voice cut through the electric tension, clear and commanding. “You don’t want to do this. You’re officers of the law. Serve and protect, remember?”

Her words echoed, but one of the men on the stairs barked back, his voice trembling with fury. “Protect who? The city’s going to implode because of him!” His pistol shifted toward Drake, the weight of his anger dragging it like a magnet. “You saw it—we all saw it. A man was just murdered!”

Drake’s chest constricted, guilt slicing through him like broken glass, but María stepped forward, her weapon steady, her voice sharp. “You don’t get to decide who lives and dies. That’s not your job.”

The cop at the bottom of the stairs—the one with the shotgun—spat out his words, pain bleeding through his rage. “My wife is in St. Canard General. Cancer treatment. And I just watched on live TV as a man was burned to death because this man put on a mask years ago and painted a target on this city. You tell me—how many more have to die before it’s enough?”

Reiko’s eyes softened for just a second. She didn’t lower her gun, but her tone dropped, quiet and razor-sharp. “You think shooting him fixes this? You think giving in to terrorists is going to keep your wife safe? They’ll keep killing, and then what? Who’s next? Who’s ever safe once you cross that line?”

The stairwell filled with heavy breathing, the stink of sweat, the oily tang of gunmetal. Drake’s hands trembled at his sides. He opened his mouth, voice raw, desperate. “If it saves people—if it saves her—maybe it is enough.”

María spun on him, fire in her eyes. “Don’t you dare say that, Drake Mallard. Don’t you even think about giving them the satisfaction.”

The words cracked against the walls like a gunshot. Silence fell heavy, trembling on the edge of violence.

And then, just as the tension reached its breaking point, everything changed.

The lights flickered once. Twice. And then—blackout.

The fluorescent bulbs overhead died with a buzz, plunging the stairwell into suffocating darkness. The hum of the building cut out, leaving only their ragged breathing, the metallic click of someone adjusting their grip on a weapon. Somewhere above, a radio crackled and went silent. The heat vents stopped with a sigh.

Powerless. Just as the voice on the tape had promised.

Then came the panic.

A startled cry from the officer with the shotgun. María’s voice, sharp and commanding: “Drop your weapon!” Reiko echoed her, calm but fierce. Footsteps shuffled on the stairs, leather squeaked, steel scraped as pistols were raised higher.

For Drake, though, the world slowed.

The darkness didn’t suffocate him—it embraced him. Wrapped itself around him like an old friend. The chaos outside of him dimmed, reduced to something far away. He inhaled once, deeply, and the air filled his lungs like fire.

Darkness.

He was the darkness.

He moved.

Drake lunged forward, low and sudden, his gloved hand snapping the shotgun’s barrel upward just as the officer squeezed the trigger. The blast thundered, muzzle flash illuminating the stairwell for the briefest instant, sparks chewing into the concrete wall above them. Before the officer could recover, Drake drove his elbow into the man’s ribs—once, twice—each strike sharp, merciless. The man doubled over with a grunt, the shotgun ripped from his hands and clattering to the floor.

Drake didn’t hesitate. He pivoted, flipped the shotgun around by the barrel, and rammed the stock into the cop’s chest with brutal efficiency, sending him sprawling back into the doorframe, wheezing for air as he fell.

Above, the two with pistols shouted, “Freeze!” but Drake was already moving. The stairwell was his stage now. He bounded up the steps, his silhouette a blur in the dark.

The first officer raised his weapon, finger tightening on the trigger—too slow. Drake’s hand shot out, grabbing the wrist, wrenching it sideways until bone popped and the pistol discharged harmlessly into the wall. Drake followed it with a headbutt, the crack of skull meeting skull echoing in the stairwell. The officer cried out, collapsing backward against the railing. Drake tore the gun from his limp fingers and flung it into the shadows.

The second officer tried to line up his shot, panic in his breath, but Drake was faster still. He drove his foot into the cop’s knee, bending it sideways with a sickening crunch. The man screamed, buckling as Drake’s fist slammed into his throat, cutting the scream off into a gagged choke.

No killing. Not tonight. But pain? Pain he could deliver in a way few men knew.

The stairwell was alive now with the sounds of groaning, choking, the clatter of weapons sliding across concrete. Drake stood in the middle of it all, chest heaving, the darkness hiding the exhaustion in his eyes, leaving only the raw, jagged power of his presence.

The officer with the shotgun struggled to rise, one arm cradling his ribs. Drake was on him in an instant, his foot pressing into the man’s chest, pinning him flat. His shadow loomed over the broken figure, monstrous in the faint glow of the exit sign.

“I am the terror that flaps in the night,” Drake growled, his voice low, guttural, laced with menace as the emergency lights clicked on.

The stairwell was silent now except for the groans of the disarmed officers. Reiko and María stood frozen, both of them staring up at Drake. They had seen him fight before, but this was different. This wasn’t just skill—this was something primal, something unleashed in the blackout.

Drake Mallard wasn’t stumbling anymore.

He was the shadow. The predator. The storm in the night.

Darkwing Duck had returned.

The station lobby was a frenzy of movement, a hive teetering on the brink of collapse. Commanders shouted conflicting orders, officers shouldered riot shields and rifles, the scrape of boots against tile echoing through the high-ceilinged room. It was a desperate orchestra of panic—yet Drake cut through it with purpose, Reiko on one side, María on the other, pushing past the chaos like a current cutting through floodwaters.

The glass doors to the street gave way beneath Drake’s shoulder, and suddenly they were outside. The air was colder than it had been only minutes earlier, as if the whole city shivered in anticipation of what was coming. The afternoon light had dimmed into an eerie half-gloom, the sun hidden behind a haze of gray clouds. Streetlamps, traffic signals, even the neon signs of storefronts were all dead, their bulbs cold and black.

Silence pressed in around them. Not the silence of peace, but the silence of something unnatural, as though the city itself had paused, holding its breath.

A distant horn blared—long, frantic, insistent. Then the squeal of brakes, followed by the harsh crunch of metal colliding with metal. The sound echoed down the block, a grim herald of what was coming. Drake’s eyes narrowed as he hustled María toward the curb, where her sedan sat parked. He wrenched the passenger side door open and all but shoved her inside.

“Move!” he snapped, his voice edged with urgency.

But Reiko didn’t follow. She stopped just shy of the car, her hand gripping her still drawn pistol, her eyes sweeping the dim street like she could already see the chaos brewing in every shadow. “I can’t go with you,” she said, her voice steady but strained. “The city’s about to explode. People are going to panic. Looting, riots, hospitals overwhelmed—I need to be here.”

Drake froze, one hand still on the roof of the car. His jaw clenched, and for a heartbeat, something heavy flickered in his eyes. But then he gave a short, solemn nod, accepting it without argument.

Reiko turned her gaze back to him. “What’s your plan?”

Drake exhaled slowly, his hand tightening on the metal frame of the car door. “Audobon Bay Bridge. My old hideout’s still there. Weapons. Gear. Everything I’ll need.”

Reiko pulled her phone from her pocket, thumb tapping at the screen. The display was blank—no signal, no service. She shook her head grimly. “Nothing. How are we supposed to keep in contact?”

Drake moved to the other side of the car and climbed in, gripping the wheel with something close to grim finality. “Shortwave radio,” he said.

Reiko frowned, brushing a strand of pale hair back from her face. “We switched to digital a while ago. But…” Her eyes narrowed as she thought it through. “There should still be some in storage.”

Drake jammed the key into the ignition, and the engine rumbled to life. “Then find one. I’ll reach out as soon as I can.”

Reiko stepped closer, leaning toward the open window. Her voice softened, but her eyes were sharp with resolve. “María. Keep him safe.”

María, still catching her breath in the passenger seat, gave a sharp nod, her hand brushing over the butt of her pistol for reassurance.

For a moment, the three of them lingered in that cold half-light, their eyes meeting—unspoken promises traded in silence. Then Drake shoved the gearshift forward and peeled away from the curb. The tires squealed against the asphalt, the sound sharp in the dead quiet of the city.

Reiko stood in the middle of the street, her figure growing smaller in the rearview mirror, a solitary figure against a city on the brink. The sky was dimming further, the shadows deepening. Soon, St. Canard would be swallowed in darkness.

And into that darkness, Darkwing Duck drove.