You, however, were on a rooftop. The tar paper was slick under your worn sneakers, the neon sign of the condemned hotel across the street flickering a sickly pink across the puddles. In your hands, a pair of cheap, plastic-coated binoculars felt absurdly small against the scale of the city’s skyline.

Your goal was simple, if insane: watch. The news channels called it the “Battinson’s” territory tonight, a rare sighting of the big bat himself rumored on the police bands. If you could just see him, see how he moved, where he went… it was a start. It had to be.

A shadow, too large and too fast to be a bird, detached itself from a gargoyle three blocks over. It was here. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You raised the binoculars, your breath fogging the cheap lenses.