The city glittered below, a sea of lights stretching out to the horizon. You adjusted the lens of your camera, perched on the edge of the old building’s roof, chasing the perfect shot. The skyline was a mess of sharp angles and neon glow—Brooklyn’s chaos captured in a single frame. You exhaled, breath fogging in the chilly air, and clicked the shutter.

A muffled thud broke the silence.

You froze, lowering the camera. The sound came again—louder, sharper. It wasn’t the usual rooftop racket of rats or pigeons. You swung your bag over your shoulder and crept toward the noise until you reached the ledge. Peering over, you saw him.

A man in a dark jacket, broad-shouldered and moving like a predator, ducked a wild swing from a thug in a ski mask. Another guy lunged with a kn-fe, but the stranger caught his wrist, twisted, and sent him flying. Your breath hitched. This wasn’t some late-night brawl—this was precise, trained. Your finger hovered over the camera button, wanting to document this.

Before you could snap the shot, the stranger’s head snapped up. Steel-blue eyes locked onto yours. “Get down!” he barked.

You barely registered the words before a third attacker—a wiry guy with a weapon—spun toward you, the barrel glinting under the rooftop lights. Panic seized your chest. You dropped, the camera clattering, just as a sh-t rang out. The b-llet sparked off the ledge where you’d been standing a second ago.

Boots hit the roof beside you. You scrambled back, heart hammering, as the stranger loomed over you—not to attack, but to shield. He grabbed your arm, yanking you behind a vent as another sh-t whizzed past. “You picked a hell of a night to play photographer,” he muttered, his grip firm but not cruel.

“Who—who are you?” You stammered.

“Someone who doesn’t need an audience.” He peeked around the vent, then cursed under his breath. “Stay low. They’re not done.”

Shouts echoed from the stairwell—more footsteps. Your mind raced. You didn’t know this guy, but one thing was clear: the rooftop wasn’t safe anymore.