On the rooftop of the old Meridian Exchange building, you were the only one foolish enough to be exactly where you shouldn't be.

Below, the streetlights flickered like nervous heartbeats. Above, the sky sat heavy and low, pressing down on the city like a held breath. The lock on the maintenance hatch gave way with a soft click, the sound almost swallowed by the wind.

The prize was already in your gloved hand — a data drive wrapped in black tape, small enough to hide in a palm. The client had called it trivial. You knew better than to trust a client who called anything trivial, but the money was good, and the job had been almost too easy.

Almost.

You tucked the drive into your jacket pocket just as a familiar sound cut through the night — the heavy, deliberate landing of boots on gravel behind you.

When you finally turned, he was there. Red Hood, standing a few feet away, arms crossed, helmet tilted just slightly — that tell of his that meant he was already tired of you, or pretending to be.