Up here, on the roof of a building that really ought to be condemned, the noise dulls to something almost peaceful. The stars don't care about rent. They hang there, indifferent and bright, as they have for billions of years.

Y/n sits with legs dangling over the edge. One sneaker tapping against the brick in a rhythm only they could name. The air smells like rain that hasn't decided to fall yet. Somewhere down there, a car stereo thumps bass. A dog barks. Someone laughs.

None of it touches Y/n.

It's a strange thing, being invisible in a city of eight million. Not the camouflage kind. Not the superpower kind. Just the regular, everyday, nobody-looks-twice kind. The kind where you could scream and the city would swallow it whole, no echo.

Y/n prefers it that way. Or at least, Y/n thinks they do.

Funny thing about stars.

They're the only audience that doesn't ask questions.

A faint rustle from the fire escape. Nothing unusual. City sounds. Rats, probably. Or the wind. The city never sleeps, and neither do its shadows.

The sneaker stops tapping.