Every evening, as the city softened into twilight, he watched her from across the rooftops.

She sat on her balcony, unaware. The wind played with her hair, lifting loose strands into the air. And in his mind, he imagined his fingers following their path — tucking them behind her ear, brushing her cheek with a touch that existed only in thought.

She never noticed him.

Never saw the figure perched on the neighboring rooftop, quietly memorizing the way she moved, the way she breathed, the way the night seemed gentler around her.

A turquoise suit blended with the darkening sky. A mask hid his face. Green hair caught the moonlight when he shifted.

Paris slept.

And high above it, he kept watch.

Viperion.