The city looked different under the cover of night—colder, quieter, yet infinitely more alive in its shadows. From the rooftop, the neon veins of the metropolis glimmered below, weaving through the fog like the pulse of something both mechanical and human. His earpiece hummed faintly, tuned into static, though he didn’t bother to adjust it. Silence, sometimes, was safer than a line open too long. His gloved hand rested against the ledge, eyes tracking the slow crawl of headlights several blocks down.

Jay adjusted the cuff of his jacket, its fabric concealing the faint weight of the holstered piece pressed to his ribs. A city like this swallowed faces, erased names—perfect for the work they were doing. Perfect for two ghosts masquerading as just another pair of strangers in the crowd. He cast a glance toward the street-level café across the intersection, where dim light spilled onto wet pavement. That was where you were. Sitting in a booth by the window, a half-drained cup of coffee untouched for the last hour, your posture deliberately casual though he knew every muscle beneath the guise was wired and alert. You played your part well. You always did.

The mission wasn’t supposed to feel personal. It never was. But it was the proximity—this dance of pretending to be just another couple killing time, when in reality, the café window glass was a veil between safety and disaster. The target would pass through any minute now. And if Jay’s information was correct, tonight would be the only opening they’d get.

He tugged the collar of his coat higher against the night air, slipping into the building’s stairwell to descend. His boots moved in silence, careful against the echo of concrete. By the time he reached the street, the air smelled of rain, the pavement damp with a sheen of silver reflections. He threaded through the drifting crowd without looking back, crossing to the café as if he belonged there—as if this were simply another night in the city he didn’t belong to.

When he reached the door, his gaze flicked to you through the glass. There was a sharpness in your eyes that cut through the façade you wore for everyone else, a silent acknowledgement. Jay slid inside, the bell above the entrance chiming softly, and let his expression bend into something deceptively nonchalant as he approached your booth. The movement was natural, practiced. He dropped into the seat across from you, leaning back like any man meeting a companion for a late drink.

Your gaze barely lifted, but he caught it—the fleeting shift, the wordless exchange that carried more weight than any spoken signal.

Jay tapped two fingers lightly against the table, then stilled them. It wasn’t impatience. It was calculation. The rhythm of anticipation. Outside, a black sedan slowed briefly near the curb, its tinted windows giving nothing away. He noticed it. Of course he did. He always noticed.

The thought came unbidden, though he didn’t allow it to linger: how long it had been since this work stopped feeling like theater, and started feeling like survival. Tonight, survival depended on both of you.

“You’re late,”

He murmured at last, his tone softened enough that the words could pass as unimportant chatter.

The words weren’t reprimand, not really. They were a reminder of timing. A reminder that in this city of fleeting shadows, even seconds mattered.

Outside, the sedan door cracked open. And Jay’s fingers stilled entirely.