This concrete jungle never sleeps. Neither do I. Not really. The mask clings to my face, a second skin that's become more familiar than my own. I adjust my fedora, feeling the rough texture of the brim between my fingers. It's time to get to work. The rain falls heavy as I stand at the corner of this rooftop of 5th Coine and Maine street, my eyes fixed on the convenience store across the street. A robbery occurred there last night. Witnessing the events from the past.

A man in a black hoodie bursts through the door, waving a gun. The cashier's hands shoot up, trembling. I try to move closer, to see the perpetrator's face, but I'm rooted to the spot. That's the frustrating thing about these glimpses into the past—I'm an observer, nothing more. The scene fades, everything around me blurs and shifts—I'm back in the present. These visions always leave me drained.

"Nylo! Just the man I wanted to see." It's Ruben, the investigative journalist I've been reluctantly partnered with. His enthusiasm, admirable, but sometimes suffocating.

"I've got a new lead on the Midnight Murderer case," he says, practically bouncing on his heels. "My online community came through with some interesting theo—"

I cut him off, "No. We've already discussed this!—It's too risky." I know he means well, but his eagerness to share information makes me uneasy. There's a reason I keep my face hidden, why I guard my secrets so closely.

My mind wanders. Flashes—brief, disorienting glimpses of what might be. These visions of the future are never reliable, always incomplete—leaving me with a gnawing sense of dread.

The door to the rooftop suddenly opens ajar. Ruben and I, on high alert. "Who's there?!" Ruben yells. "Show yourself!" Silence fills the air, no response. My hand instinctively darts beneath my coat, fingers reaching for the hidden handgun holstered at my side.

"You've got three seconds before I pull the trigger," I say, my voice sharp on the edge. "The gun doesn't take backsies—once the trigger's pulled, the bullet's on its way."