Under Her Eye

Cullen Quinn sat alone in his Belfast apartment, the flickering light of his computer casting long shadows across the room. He scrolled through the files of evidence—falsified contracts, untraceable donations to political campaigns, and the illegal distribution of opioids by Connacht Corps—all part of the corrupt machinery that had been grinding the city down for years. The city’s health crisis was being manipulated, exacerbated to a breaking point, and those with the least were the ones who suffered the most. The lives of the city’s most vulnerable citizens hung by a thread: families, already facing economic hardship, torn apart by addiction, and isolated senior citizens with no insurance agonized hopelessly while Connacht Corps reaped millions in profits off their pain. He wasn’t just exposing it anymore. He was dismantling it, piece by piece, but every revelation only deepened the hole he was digging for himself.

Cullen scrubbed his heavy eyelids and ran his fingers roughly through his already tousled hair in frustration. He had been so engrossed in the files that he nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden, sharp tap on the window. He got up to investigate the source of the sound and discovered a large crow perched on the iron grate railing of the apartment’s balcony. The jet black feathers gleamed under the orange glow of the street lamps, and the bird let out a throaty caw, staring deep into Cullen’s tired eyes.

A knock at the door cut through the tension.

"Yeah, it’s open," he called, turning away from the window.

The door creaked on its hinges and admitted a shaft of yellow light from the hallway, broken by the dark figure of the woman. Cullen rolled his eyes; he didn’t want to deal with her again, but something would not allow him to dismiss her either. He didn’t trust her, that much was certain, but there was something about her presence that unsettled him, something that was always watching—always a step ahead.

“Looks like you’re fighting a losing battle," she said, her voice softly mocking. Her dark eyes scanned Cullen’s disheveled appearance and the clutter of papers scattered around the room.

Cullen didn’t respond. He kept his eyes fixed on the screen in front of him.

“I’ve been following your… progress,” she continued. “You know you can’t beat them, right?”

“I’m not here to beat them. I’m here to expose them,” he said, his tone sharp. “Once the truth gets out, it’ll be enough. Just a matter of time”

The woman took a step into the room, closing the door behind her, her ebony hair swirling like a cloak about her shoulders.

“It’s not enough. Not when the system is built to devour anyone who dares stand in its way. But you’re already in too deep, Quinn. They’ll come for you next.”

Cullen looked up, his jaw set. “And you’re offering what? Help? I already told you I don’t need your pity… or your tricks.”

“I’m not offering pity. I’m offering a way out. Just like last time.” she said, her eyes gleaming darkly. “I can make them disappear. Every single one of them. In exchange for your loyalty.”

His eyes narrowed. “And why would I trust you?”

“Because I’ve seen your future. You’ll die here, like everyone else who thinks they can beat the system.” She tilted her head, birdlike, watching him. “I can help you—save you. You’ll be dead before the end of the week if you don’t take my offer.”

Cullen’s fingers clenched into fists. “No. I fight alone.” But behind his bravado, the smallest inkling of trepidation had just been kindled.

The woman smiled, a slow, dangerous, knowing curve of her lips. “I’ll be watching. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

And as swiftly and silently as she had entered, the woman swept out of the apartment and into the night.

The next day, with the woman’s warning still ringing in his mind, Cullen made his way carefully into the heart of Belfast to meet with a former Connacht Corps employee. Previous leads with corporate whistleblowers had only produced dead ends, literally. His last three informants had mysteriously disappeared just before their scheduled meeting times only to be found days later, deceased. Their causes of death were still undetermined. Cullen desperately needed this informant. They claimed to hold damning evidence of Connacht’s crimes which, if proven true, could expose the corporation’s deliberate targeting of vulnerable communities. Trust was a luxury Cullen couldn’t afford, but if he wanted to dismantle Connacht Corps, he had no choice but to take the risk.

As he entered the alley where they had agreed to meet, he noticed a shadowed figure just on the edge of his periphery: the dark outline of a crow. She was here. He barely had time to register her presence before the woman’s voice cut through the cold air.

“They’re already on their way. You need to leave, now,” she said, her face half-hidden in the shadows.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he snapped, already on edge. “I don't know if you realize this, but I need this information. I don’t have time for—”

“You think you can just walk in and get it? The people you’re after won’t stop until you’re dead. You can’t do this alone.”

He ignored her. “I’ve handled worse.”

The woman stepped into the watery sunlight, her dark eyes locked on his. “You have no idea what you're up against. I can help you—save you. You’ll be dead before the end of the week if you don’t take my offer.”

Cullen didn’t flinch. “I’ll find another way.”

The woman’s face tightened as she stepped back into the shadows. “I warned you.”

He followed her retreating form before turning down a narrow cobblestone street, ducking into the dimly lit pub tucked away at the opposite end. The informant was already seated at one of the small tables; he was a thin, nervous man, his eyes darting to every shadow as if Connacht’s reach could stretch even into the safe corners of the bar.

“I’ve got files—proof,” he whispered, sliding a silver flash drive across the table as Cullen took the chair opposite. “Everything’s here—orders, payments, names,” he glanced over his shoulder. “But they’re watching. They know I’ve talked.”

Before Cullen could press him further, the pub's door creaked open, and two huge men in dark suits stepped in, scanning the room. Cullen’s hand closed over the flash drive, but his informant sat frozen in terror. “It’s them,” he choked out, barely audible.

“Stay calm,” Cullen muttered, slipping the flash drive into his pocket. He sized up the pair of enforcers before glancing toward the back exit, calculating their chances of escape. “Listen to me very carefully: we’ve got to play this cool. I’m gonna stand up and I want you to do the same. Shake my hand like we’re old friends and play along with what I say. Got it?”

The man nodded mutely, trembling. Cullen pushed back his chair and stood to his feet, the informant rising just after him. He grabbed the man’s hand in a jovial way and shook it warmly.

“Well, Boy-O, I’d best be headin’ on! And congratulations to you an’ Cora on the little one’s arrival.”

The men turned almost simultaneously at the sound of Cullen’s improvisation. They moved toward the table, but Cullen still held the informant’s hand.

“Come on back to the kitchen; Mark’s a good pal of mine an’ will sort ya out with some grub to take to your lass.” He grasped the man’s arm and pulled him in the direction of the kitchen, still chattering about food and Cora, whoever she was. The pair shoved their way through the swinging door, weaving between startled kitchen staff and steaming trays. Shouts erupted, and Cullen knew the men were closing in on them.

“This way!” Cullen barked, spotting a narrow service hallway that led to a rear alley. They sprinted toward the exit, the echo of footsteps and shouting close behind. As they burst into the cold night air, a black SUV screeched to a halt at the alley’s mouth.

“Run!” Cullen shouted, shoving the informant in the opposite direction. But the man hesitated, panic freezing him in place. Cullen couldn’t wait—he bolted down the alley, his heart pounding rhythmically with the rising clamor of a violent struggle behind him. He risked a brief backward glance just in time to see his informant dragged into the SUV, his muffled screams fading as the vehicle sped off. Cullen swore out loud as he melted into the shadowing cover of another alleyway. His lungs burned in his chest, but he did not slow his pace until he reached the doorway of his apartment building. He entered cautiously but was relieved to find the place completely empty.

Hours later, as he sat staring once more at his computer screen, the news broke: a body had been pulled from the river—the informant, silenced before he could truly speak. Cullen clenched his fists, the weight of the flash drive in his pocket heavy as a stone.

Three days later, Cullen sat in his car, preparing for the confrontation with Connacht Corps. And thanks to the whistleblower, Cullen was about to deal the deathblow to this modern monster. He steeled himself for the battle ahead. He couldn’t back down. He wouldn’t.

He made his way into Connacht Corps’ private building, slipping past security undetected. After a long ride, the ornate elevator doors slid open to reveal a sleek, modern penthouse—the headquarters of the pharmaceutical giant, its pristine luxury built on the backs of people who had lost everything. Leaning nonchalantly against a massive mahogany desk, the CEO of Connacht Corps, Seamus Connacht, was waiting for him.

“I was wondering when you’d show up,” Connacht said, his voice smooth and condescending, indicative of confidence that only comes with exorbitant wealth. “You think you can stop me? You think you can expose this system? You’re nothing more than a rat in a cage.”

Cullen stepped forward, his eyes locked on Connacht. “You’re the rat, Seamus. You and everyone like you. And I’m here to put an end to it.”

Connacht sneered, then snapped his fingers. Two security guards rushed through the doorway of an adjoining room, but Cullen was faster. He took them down with swift, brutal force, rendering them unconscious.

“You can fight all you want,” Connacht said coolly, crossing over the plush rug toward the open balcony door, “but you’re already dead. You’ve been dead from the moment you took this job. You’re just too proud to see it.”

Connacht turned to pour himself a drink from the Waterford crystal decanter resting on the oak credenza that stood by the door. Cullen watched with growing fury. Suddenly, the air around him grew thick, stifling his breath, and a large crow, black as the Belfast night, swooped in through the door and perched itself atop a leather wingback chair and peered with glittering eyes at the scene unfolding in the room.

“No…” Cullen’s breath caught in his throat. His heart pounded. Realization hit him like a storm—he HAD been fighting a losing battle from the very beginning, just like she had said. The shadow that haunted the corners of his vision. The woman. Thrice she had warned him, and he had rejected her help each time. He had dismissed her as a distraction sent to derail his investigation. But the sudden arrival of the crow confirmed Connacht’s sneering taunts.

Cullen's knees buckled to the cold marble, and his eyes searched for her.

The woman stepped from the shadows, her face somehow changed since he had seen her last; an ancient terror shadowed her aquiline beauty, summoning a power that had long lay dormant. He knew her, though he knew not how.

She was the Morrígan.

“Do you see it now?” her voice was like ice. “You were never meant to win, Cullen Quinn. You were always my tool—my weapon. You have served me well, but I shall have the final victory, not you.”

Before Cullen could respond, the security guards, consciousness restored, seized him from behind with a vice-like grip. Connacht moved slowly toward him, leaning down to whisper in his ear.

“Like I said, you’ve been dead from the moment you took this job,” Connacht murmured, his voice low and venomous.

With a quick, practiced motion, Connacht drew a concealed blade from his jacket and drove it into Cullen’s side. The cold steel cut deep, and Cullen gasped, the blood already beginning to flow, warm and heavy. The guards held him firm as he struggled, but the life was slowly draining from him. Connacht watched with victorious satisfaction.

Cullen turned his whitening face to the Morrígan.

“So this is it,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “This is how it ends.”

The Morrígan’s lips curled slightly, the faintest trace of a smile playing at the edges of her mouth. “No,” she said softly, “this is how it begins.”

Her words rang through the penthouse like a death knell, and Connacht, hearing, felt his confidence begin to crumble.

“You—” Connacht started, the words dying in his throat. He swallowed, but his mouth was dry. “I don't understand...”

The Morrígan’s gaze snapped to Connacht, and in that instant, he understood—truly, terribly understood—what it meant to be marked for death. His stomach turned to water as he beheld her full fury. Terrible shadows seemed to stretch from her very being, curling at the edges of the room, claw-like fingers grasping at his throat. Behind her, one of the guards muttered a prayer. The other stumbled toward the door, but there was nowhere to run. The room, the city, the world itself seemed to fold inward, drawn into the space between the woman and the dying man.

Cullen coughed, blood staining his lips. “I should have known,” he murmured, swaying.

The Morrígan knelt on the floor and drew Cullen’s cold form into her arms, her fingers brushing lightly against his cheek. “I did warn you you know,” she said, her voice neither kind nor cruel, only certain.

The crow fluttered down to rest on Cullen’s slumping shoulder, confirming what Seamus Connacht now feared: this woman, the Morrigan, was the beginning of his end. Cullen Quinn had been her battle axe that delivered the final blow, and the Morrígan had come to witness it.

Cullen’s vision blurred as the pool of his blood deepened. The world around him dwindled into darkness. He felt the Morrígan’s gaze linger on him. There was no pity in her eyes, only the cold glimmer of regret for the loss of this stalwart warrior. He drew one final ragged breath and lay still. Belfast would remember Cullen Quinn, hero of the people.

The Morrígan kissed his pale brow and laid his head gently on the floor and rose. The crow spread its wings and took flight, stirring the hurricane winds of vengeance. Connacht Corps would be the first casualty.