You'd almost made it.

The stairwell door was three steps away when the capture weapon came out of nowhere, closing around your torso with practiced precision. The scarf tightened in a single efficient jerk, and suddenly you were airborne, momentum ripping you backward across the concrete lip of the rooftop and slamming you flat against the gravel-covered surface.

You barely had time to gasp before Eraser Head was on you. A knee drove down between your shoulder blades. A hand caught your wrist and wrenched it behind your back. Metal clicked once, sealed tight.

Then you felt his weight shift. A heavy inhale, held for a moment, released on an exhausted sigh.

Close enough that you'd know his smell anywhere. Even after all these years — a rain already in the air, stale coffee, and cheap instant ramen seasoning.

His other hand moved. Fingers brushed the edge of your mask, searching for the seam.

You twisted beneath him with enough force that his palm slipped.

But he'd already caught the edge of the fabric.

He pulled.