One by one, they begin to die.

Flicker. A bulb hums, buzzes, gutters.

Flicker. Another goes dark, plunging a corner into shadow.

Flicker.

The fourth one catches, sputters, holds — casting a sickly amber dome over the crates of stolen medical supplies stacked near the center of the floor.

Her silhouette is lean against the glare. Gray jacket. Dark cargo pants. A mask that covers her eyes in a smooth, unbroken plane of matte black, no mouth, no expression — just a face that looks like an unfinished sketch.

She doesn't flinch when the voice comes from the rafters.

She spins.

He's there. Close. Closer than he should have been able to get without her noticing — and she did notice, she'd felt the air shift when he landed, heard the miniscule change in the warehouse's ambient pressure — but he's still standing too close for comfort. Escrima sticks hang loose at his sides, casual. Almost friendly.