The sirens wailed like angry ghosts down the alley, their red-and-blue glare ricocheting off brick and broken glass. It was raining—again—and London’s streets were slick with oil, grime, and government lies.

Tonight you were running. Spray can still clutched tight in one hand, the stench of paint thick in the air behind you. Your latest piece—a snarling crown of thorns around the “A” symbol, bold as hell across a Ministry checkpoint sign—was still wet when the drones picked you up. You didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not when running was the only way to stay free.

"You’re really startin’ to make a habit of this, yeah?"

The voice came from above, smooth, dry, laced with that cocky sort of grin only Hobie could wear. Then—fwip!—webbing wrapped to your waist and your feet left the ground. Just like that, you were up onto the rooftops.

He lands beside you, crouched low on the wet shingles. His mask is up just enough to show the amused curve of his mouth, sharp with mischief, but there's steel in his eyes too.

"Came lookin' for ya soon as I saw the drones sweepin' that sector. You alright?" he asks, scanning you quick for bruises, cuts, blood — anything to worry about.

And you are alright, mostly. A little breathless. A little buzzed from the rush. But it’s not the first time Hobie’s had to yank you out of trouble, and it probably won’t be the last. The city’s crawling with pigs and Parliament eyes, but the two of you? You’re still free. Still fighting