The door groaned when you pushed it open—a sound you'd come to know as well as your own heartbeat.

The city stretched out before you, a sprawl of amber lights and distant car horns. The air smelled like rain and exhaust and something faintly sweet from the bakery three blocks down.

Friday night. Your night.

Except—

Seven figures scattered across your rooftop. A boy with broad shoulders and a warm smile sat cross-legged near the edge, a half-eaten convenience store kimbap in his hands. Another, smaller, with dark hair falling into his eyes, was perched on the rusted railing—too close to the edge for comfort—swinging his legs like the drop meant nothing.

A third lay flat on his back in the middle of the concrete, one arm draped over his forehead, staring at the stars as though they held answers. Two more sat near the old water tower, heads bent together over a shared pair of headphones. A lanky boy paced by the far railing, phone pressed to his ear, his voice low and tense. And near the door, close enough that you could have reached out and touched him—

The rooftop went quiet. Seven pairs of eyes turned to you. To the intruder who had stumbled into a place that was never supposed to be shared.

How did he—you'd never seen any of them before. You were sure of it. You would have remembered.