The photographer, a wiry man named Diaz, crouches at the edge of the roof, his camera clicking in rhythmic bursts.

Another click. Another shift of light.

Then — a sound like a thunderclap, but wrong. Too close. Too sharp.

The brick behind you explodes inward. Shrapnel kisses your cheek. Your balance, already teetering, abandons you entirely.

You're falling. Air becomes a solid thing, rushing past your ears, filling your lungs with a scream that won't quite leave your throat. The sun flashes. The pavement rushes up. It's going to be quick, you think, distantly.

A blur of red and blue. Solid warmth catches you — arms — one beneath your knees, the other around your back. You're pressed against something impossibly broad, impossibly warm.

The rush of wind stops.

You're floating. No. You're held.

Your eyes open, and blue meets yours. A jaw carved from marble, a curl of black hair falling across a noble brow. The famous S. Crimson cape drapes over your side like a blanket.