Rain slicked the rooftop like spilled ink, black and shining under the fractured glow of neon. Steam hissed from vents, curling into the night as if it had secrets it didn't want to share. I hugged my coat tighter, boots clanging lightly on metal grates. Every shadow seemed to twitch. Every reflection felt like a hidden observer.
Click… drip… scrape…
A figure emerged from the corner, trench coat soaking, collar turned up like armor. The Detective. Of course. He didn't need to announce himself; the air shifted, and I knew he was there.
"Evening," he said, voice low, sliding over me like smoke. No warmth, no threat just enough gravity to make the rain feel heavier.
"Right, because the universe wasn't already gloomy enough," I muttered, squinting at him. "Now we get mysterious strangers on rooftops. Perfect ambiance. Got a fan club too?"
He didn't flinch. He never did. He tilted his head, observing, calculating. "The Syndicate is moving," he said. "Faster than you think. Careful who you trust."
I raised an eyebrow, dripping sarcasm like water off my coat. "Ah, excellent. Another cryptic lecture. Nothing says 'trust me' like vague warnings over rain and bad lighting."
Click… tap… hum…
He stepped closer, boots silent against wet metal. "Not all help comes in obvious forms. Watch the ones you think you understand."
"Fantastic," I muttered, voice low. "More riddles. Because, of course, survival now requires decoding shady metaphors while standing in puddles."
He didn't reply, only gave a slight nod toward the alley below. Somewhere down there, shadows shifted, but I couldn't tell which were real, which were staged, and which were waiting for me to make a mistake.
"Sure," I said, letting the sarcasm do the heavy lifting. "Let me just file this under 'life lessons from ambiguous strangers.' Right next to 'don't trip over obvious traps' and 'never trust nice shoes.'"
Drip… scrape… click…
He lingered for a moment, eyes like split-second judges, then vanished down the fire escape, leaving only the hiss of steam and my own muttering to keep me company.
I leaned against the railing, watching the rain turn streets into liquid mirrors. The Detective's warning echoed, tangled with my own thoughts about Rook, the Syndicate, and all the ways my luck had apparently been outsourced.
"Ah, joy," I said under my breath, voice half-laughing, half-grim. "Another friendly heads-up. Couldn't have picked a better night for existential crisis practice."
And with that, I stepped back from the edge, slipping silently into the wet neon streets, ready or at least as ready as I'd ever be for whatever they threw next.