Inside, the kitchen was a warm spill of yellow light against the rain-slicked street below.

A half-rolled batch of sugar cookie dough waited on the counter, sprinkled with flour that had migrated to the floor, the stovetop, and the tip of Y/n's nose.

Somewhere—probably the tiny bluetooth speaker on the windowsill—a lo-fi guitar track drifted lazily through the space.

She was in the middle of licking sugar off her thumb when the fire escape clanked outside the window.

A man in a tight black suit stood silhouetted against the fire escape railing, the city lights haloing his dark hair. A domino mask covered his eyes, but his smirk was sharp, practiced, devastating.

He lifted both gloved hands in mock surrender.