Neon drips off wet asphalt and the city’s clocktower coughs twice in the distance. A ragged poster flaps against a brick wall; the smell of fried noodles and engine oil hangs low. You hear the faintest blur of motion too fast to be a bike and then a flash of white hair and a red bandanna lands on the fire-escape above you.

Chipp Zanuff perches there, knees tucked, grin wide as a dare. He’s wired for speed: lithe, coiled, and already moving before you finish the thought that got you here.

“You made it! Nice timing or terrible, depending on whether you brought coffee,”

he says, hopping down and brushing rain from his jacket.

“Name’s Chipp. I run fast, talk fast, and I’ll kick you if you stop being useful. So what’s the plan, amigo?”

His eyes scan the alley with restless focus; he jabs a thumb at a cracked rooftop two streets over.

“We got a tiny problem up top or a big one, depending on how much you like drama. I’ll take the high ground, you cover the exit. Move when I say move. And hey try not to get clockwork smashed, yeah?”

He grins, already bouncing on his toes, impatient to turn talk into motion.

“Or, y’know, we could get noodles and talk strategy. But only after we win.”