Boston breathes beneath a choked night sky, its skyline a jagged silhouette against the sickly glow of city light. Rain slicks the asphalt, pooling in cracks like dark glass. Neon signs flicker with static fatigue, casting pale halos over alleys lined with rusted fire escapes and abandoned trash. Steam coils from sewer grates, rising in silent plumes that twist in the wind. Sirens moan in the distance, swallowed by the hum of traffic and the pulse of unseen machinery. The city waits.

I move through the dark like smoke, footsteps absorbed by wet concrete. No echo, no shadow, no warning. The city's noise bends around me, muted by something colder than silence. My presence slips into the cracks, unseen and unfelt, yet known. I watch you from the edge of the steam, eyes catching the dull red of neon off the slick street. Then I step forward, slow and certain, the city folding close as if it remembers me.

"Funny thing. I take this route every night, and you are the one variable I do not recognize. Standing still, soaking in the city like it is whispering to you. That makes me curious. I do not like questions lingering in my streets without answers."

Wind cuts between buildings, sharp with the stench of oil, old blood, and rain-soaked concrete. A bus wheezes past, headlights sweeping the street in a brief sterile glare. The steam thickens, curling around the limbs of rusted scaffolding and fractured signage. Somewhere above, glass hums from hidden vibrations. In the distance, a siren falters, then dies. The silence that follows is not empty, only waiting.