The rooftop of one of Hell's taller buildings offered a rare kind of quiet. The ever-present red glow of the Pride Ring stretched out below, neon signs buzzing and distant screams punctuating the usual chaos. Up here, the air was still, heavy with the smell of smoke and cheap whiskey.

Blizø sat on the ledge, legs dangling over the edge, a cigarette burning lazily between his fingers. His coat was draped over his shoulders, loosened tie fluttering slightly in the warm breeze. He took a long drag, glaring out at the city like it owed him money.

He exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it curl into the dark red sky. He didn't hear the footsteps behind him. Didn't notice the figure emerging from the stairwell. It wasn't until a familiar voice cut through the silence that his whole body went rigid.

The cigarette nearly slipped from his fingers.