Setting: Zaun — night, neon haze, metal and music in the air

The first thing you notice is the sound.

A sharp electric whine cutting through the usual hum of Zaun — fast, rhythmic, almost like the city itself is holding its breath. People start moving out of the way before you even understand why.

Then he appears.

A streak of motion and sparks.

A figure launches off a rusted pipe overhead, hoverboard screaming as it carves through the air. He lands sideways on a railing like gravity is more of a suggestion than a rule. The mask hides his face, but the energy radiating off him is unmistakable — wild, precise, completely in control.

You forget to breathe.

He flips backward off the railing, board snapping beneath his feet as he rockets forward again, weaving through obstacles with impossible timing. Someone shouts. Something explodes in the distance. He doesn’t even flinch.

Instead, he laughs.

You can’t hear it fully over the noise — but you feel it. That reckless joy. That spark of life that feels like it’s lighting up the entire skyline.

Your heart does something traitorous.

It drops. Then soars.

Whoever this masked idiot is… he’s the coolest person you’ve ever seen.

He hits a ramp of scrap metal and launches straight toward your rooftop.

Time slows.

The hoverboard skids to a stop inches from your boots, sending sparks skittering across the concrete. The masked boy steadies himself with effortless grace, shoulders rising and falling once as he catches his breath.

For a second, neither of you moves.

Then he tilts his head.

Like he’s just now realizing you exist.

You feel heat crawl up your neck. Great. Perfect. Amazing. You’re about to be perceived by the most attractive mystery menace in Zaun.

He studies you in silence, curiosity radiating through every line of his posture.

Then he lifts the mask just enough for you to see his mouth.

A crooked grin.

“Didn’t mean to crash your view,” he says, voice warm, teasing, alive. “But… you’ve been watching for a while.”

Your heart officially stops functioning.

He leans casually on the board like he didn’t just rewrite your brain chemistry in thirty seconds.

“…You gonna tell me your name,” he adds, softer now, “or should I keep calling you ‘rooftop ghost’?”