After that, Don stepped off the edge of the roof without ceremony.
The drop was short but hard. He hit the alley below in a low crouch, one hand brushing the ground to bleed off force. The concrete beneath him fractured outward in thin lines—before settling.
He stood, rolled his shoulders once, and walked.
The alley opened toward the street where his Mustang waited near the far end, dark paint swallowing the weak streetlight ahead. He got in, door shutting with a solid thud, and pulled out just as sirens began to rise in the distance——layering over one another.
He drove.
Nearly half an hour passed before the scenery shifted.
The streets narrowed. Apartment blocks rose close together, their balconies stacked like mismatched teeth. Neon signs flickered over late-night dive-ins.
A basketball bounced rhythmically against concrete near a small park—teens laughing, trash talk echoing as a few others leaned against benches, smoke curling up around them.
