Emily bustled through the automatic door of a local office building, power-walking as fast as she could in her restrictive pencil skirt to the elevator. The building was nestled amongst many others in the heart of the city’s downtown center, which meant Emily often had to fight traffic to arrive at her internship on time. Following the conversation with her mother, Emily had jumped up in a panic to get ready for work and stowed the crow-marked business card into her pocket.

After awkwardly squeezing into the thin space between two larger men in suits, Emily waited patiently for the elevator to reach the floor of the local newspaper company. The Cap City Gazette had been presented to her as a possible journalism internship after Emily had recently graduated from a nearby college. Although the position kept her quite busy, it helped pay her bills and gave her an opportunity to live away from the cruel reach of her stepfather.

As Emily squeezed out of the elevator, nearly tripping on her own feet in the process, she was greeted by the jaded visage of the receptionist at the front desk who was chewing a wad of gum vigorously.

The receptionist looked over at Emily lazily, “Mr. Bossman wants to see you once you get settled in.”

“Eh, okay. Did he say why?”

“Hell if I know. Maybe he wants you to stroke his pecker,” the receptionist responded as she turned back to her computer, boring her eyes into a game of solitaire.

Emily sighed and walked through the entrance of the Cap City Gazette, debating on whether or not the receptionist had any inherent sense of professionalism. The CEO of the company that owned the Gazette was becoming more and more insistent on having Emily’s company, which was a bit disconcerting. With the increasing unemployment rate and the threat of her stepfather’s presence at home, the aspiring journalist felt she was better off humoring her boss for the time being.

Emily knocked lightly, and then pushed her way through a glass door that was labeled Martin Whitaker, Chief Editor & CEO. Inside, locked filing cabinets bordered the sizable office. Various editorial awards and photos of Mr. Whitaker attending charity events hung from the walls. Emily always thought that the room reeked of public service and accomplishment.

“Ah, Emily! Just in time,” a man spoke from behind a black, contemporary desk. A streak of gray parted the man’s dark brown hair, marking the imminent anniversary of his fourth decade on Earth. His mood perked significantly as Emily stood before him in her flattering business attire.

“You needed to see me sir? I only just arrived…I apologize if you had to wait long.”

“No, not at all,” Mr. Whitaker assured Emily with a grin, “It’s just that there is going to be an important meeting today. Some of our more experienced journalists have returned from their projects overseas for this. I was hoping you could take notes for me.”

The hibernating “oh-shit” meter in Emily’s brain started to rise at an alarming rate as she processed what was going on. Something like this was a huge occurrence, even though she hadn’t heard about it in advance. To make matters worse, she had shown up to work later than usual.

“Oh certainly Mr. Whitaker,” Emily responded while trying to hide the fact that she had no idea what was going on. The strawberry-blonde hair on her head frizzled in exasperation, as if it had read through her charade.

“Please Emily, call me Martin,” Mr. Whitaker said as he stood from his desk and straightened his shirt collar, “How do I look?”

Emily averted her eyes as a tinge of discomfort tickled her stomach, “You look as presentable as ever sir.”

Mr. Whitaker grinned with satisfaction as he motioned for Emily to follow him out of the office and into the briefing room. Emily should have noticed it before, but the office of the Gazette was much busier than usual as both familiar and unfamiliar faces trotted around the centralized cube farm. The other journalists and office workers gathered materials for the meeting hurriedly and were speaking to each other excitedly as they took their seats around Emily in the briefing room.

Mr. Whitaker stood at the front of the room near a dry-erase board that was stained with the ghosts of formerly scrawled notes and diagrams after years of use. He waited patiently for the other journalists to settle as he grinned warmly with enthusiasm. After a moment, everyone had settled in and waited for their Chief Editor to begin the meeting.

“As you all know,” Mr. Whitaker began in a loud, resounding voice, “the mayor’s reelection is nigh. In an effort to win back the interests of this city, he’s preparing a campaign that will elaborate on his initial core values. However, there’s word that the mayor’s campaign will also be introducing a plan to greatly reduce crime rates throughout the city. At the center of this campaign, the mayor is going to make the city a promise.”

Mr. Whitaker plucked a dry-erase marker from the nearby board and began to write something out, which he then circled widely. The journalists surrounding Emily began to whisper to each other anxiously as they copied notes into their journals and laptops.

After setting his marker down, Mr. Whitaker turned to face the rest of the room and pointed at what he had written, “The Assistance Agency!”

For only a moment, Emily noticed an unfamiliar expression of smugness flit across Mr. Whitaker’s face as if he was pleased with himself. An involuntary twitch rose through Emily’s spine as she noted the out-of-character behavior. Aside from his obvious flirtations, something had always seemed off about her boss, but he hid it very well.

A stray hand shot up from the crowd of on looking journalists, “Mr. Whitaker, The Assistance Agency has worked in the shadows of this city for awhile now. Their movements are so hard to follow, people have even questioned whether or not they exist. How exactly does the mayor think this will help his campaign?”

Mr. Whitaker teetered on his feet while nodding in acknowledgment of the journalist’s question, “That’s a fine question. Even if the Assistance Agency doesn’t have prevalence in the public view, their actions have still affected the lives of many. There are other criminal organizations in this city, but I believe the mayor thinks he can gain popular opinion by giving the Assistance Agency a face. If he can bring them down, he can claim himself as a proponent of suicide prevention. Of course, he will probably have to address other problems as well, such as the rising rate of unemployment which is also calling the alarming rise in suicide.”

Emily digested the words of her boss with increasing interest. The Assistance Agency had left phantom traces of their organization in the city for many years, causing an unspoken pervasiveness of paranoia when it came to death. Even if there was no forensic proof of an Agent being involved in a particular suicide, there was always a chance it was somehow their fault. 

The Agency could cover their tracks, but they couldn’t cover up the grief of countless citizens who had lost loved ones.

Emily cleared her throat and rose her hand nervously into the air, “Um…if the mayor intends to ‘put a face’ on The Assistance Agency, does that mean he’s going to make an example out of someone specific? What if it’s not an authentic member of the agency?”

Mr. Whitaker smirked at Emily’s initiative before turning back to the dry-erase board to scrawl an image with a black marker. The journalists around her fidgeted restlessly in their seats with anticipation as they waited to see what was drawn.

“This,” Mr. Whitaker started as he finished his dry-erase artwork, “is arguably the most iconic member of The Assistance Agency. This particular agent is believed to be involved in the most deaths around the city. Many of these deaths appear to be accidents or caused by natural means, which makes them particularly frightening. Just imagine, a stranger in the dark who gets to decide your fate, and no one can even track them. This is their beloved mascot, and if he can catch them, the mayor will most certainly make them suffer at the mercy of the public.”

The CEO of the Gazette stepped away from the board to reveal the image he had drawn. The journalists next to Emily squirmed in awe as they looked at what Mr. Whitaker had scrawled thickly in black against the white backdrop of the dry-erase board.

Emily gulped uneasily as her heart rose into her throat while she secretly thumbed the engravings of the business card stowed away in her pocket. Gazing at her from across the room was the thick, black image of a crow stretching its wings.