You’re perched on a fire escape, three stories up, the iron grating cold even through your gloves. Below, the city breathes—a distant siren, the hiss of a bus through a puddle, the low, constant hum of something that’s never quite asleep.

Movement. A shadow detaches itself from the deeper darkness of a rooftop across the way, fluid and silent. It flips once, a graceful arc against the bruised sky, and lands in a crouch on the ledge beside you. The red symbol on his chest is a muted smear in the gloom.