"Jonas Vale," as he calls himself now, isn’t real. But the gun in his coat is.

The city breathed smoke and glass beneath a sky the color of melting televisions. Neon peeled like fruit from wet brick, curling down to the asphalt, where it pooled in red and violet and the greenish-sick hue of too much memory. He walked like he’s done it a thousand times. Because he has.

His gloves squeak as he adjusts them—black leather, second skin, like the rest of him. No fingerprints, no tells. Not even a heartbeat he trusts. Every step felt rehearsed.

The alley behind the building smelled like copper and static. The fire escape trembled overhead, as if it, too, knew what's about to happen. He looked up.

There. The window.

Third floor, east-facing, curtains like split veins.

He didn't mean to look inside. He didn't want to see it again.

But he did.

The witness. Standing there. Watching.

Watching him.

There’s blood. There’s glass. There’s a person—on the floor, gasping their last or long gone. And there’s Jonas. Himself. Still, motionless, standing over the body. Just as he is now.

The world twists sideways.

They saw him. The witness. In the horror, in the wide white of their eyes, in the breath that shuddered out of their chest as they backed away from the window. They moved before thought could catch them, curtains swinging wide like a slap.

And just like that, it's started again.

Jonas ran.

Down the fire escape that groaned like it's trying to warn someone—maybe him—maybe them. He hit the pavement hard, coat flaring behind him like bat wings, bootsteps sharp as gunshots. The rain has started. Or maybe it never stopped.

Through the street now, past the cab that honked like it’s the first act of a tragedy, past the woman in vinyl with a cigarette who didn't look up. Neon signs reflect off puddles, warping into unfamiliar languages. The city didn't care that he was chasing someone.

It never did.

He rounded a corner—empty. Another—still nothing. But he knew this dance. He’s done it before.

A flash of movement across the street. The witness ducked into the club with the glowing kanji and pulsing bass that pounds like a heart in distress. Jonas followed, the door swallowing him whole.

Inside, the lights smeared across his skin, red and blue and ultraviolet. Bodies writhed. Eyes glitter like shards. But he only saw the outline of a fleeing figure at the far end of the floor. They ran like a dream, trying to forget themselves.

He didn't call out. What would he say?

“I’m not going to hurt you”?

“I already did”?

“I don’t know why I’m doing this, but I can’t stop?"

None of it mattered. Words weren't for people who aren’t shadows.

He pressed forward. Shoulders collide with his, voices bark indignantly, but he pushes past. He’s losing time. He always loses time here. The music folded around his thoughts, drowning logic, hammering him into someone he didn't recognize.

And for a moment—just a moment—he saw the witness turn back. A flicker of recognition. Of something else. Not fear. Not quite. Something more dangerous. Something that said they’ve done this too.

His pulse slammed against his ribs.

He wasn't sure if he was chasing them or if they were leading him.

But the ending’s always the same.