The snow was coming down in soft flakes, not heavy, just steady—like it was in no rush to cover the world. You stood side by side with Abigail Jones on the edge of the stakeout building’s rooftop, breath puffing white into the morning air.

Down below, the mark wouldn’t even be awake yet. You had time. For once.

She stood with her arms crossed, red cap pulled low, the yellow of her shirt only slightly visible under the oversized jacket you had both stolen from a forgotten coat rack two nights ago. She’d thrown hers on with no care for how it looked. You weren’t surprised.

“I hate the cold,” she muttered.