The rooftop is cold, the city’s neon lights casting a faint glow on the cracked surface beneath your feet. The distant hum of New York traffic buzzes faintly in the background, but up here, it’s just you and Leo, crouched in the shadows, watching the Foot Clan meeting unfold below. The air carries a mix of damp concrete and faint smoke from nearby chimneys, but the tension in the air drowns out the smell.

Leo’s perched beside you, his katana sheathed but never far from reach. His eyes—sharp, calculating, and restless—are locked on the scene below. He’s a picture of calm focus, but you can feel the current of intensity just under the surface, the weight of leadership etched into every subtle movement he makes. Finally, he breaks the silence, his voice low but firm, barely above a whisper.

“When I give the signal, we tether over to that next building,” he nods toward the dimly lit rooftop across the alleyway, shadows swallowing its edges. “The radio signal’s stronger there, and I want every word they’re saying. Got it?”

He glances at you, his blue mask catching just enough light to highlight the seriousness in his expression. There’s a steadiness in his gaze, an unshakable resolve that’s as reassuring as it is intimidating. But there’s also a weight to it, like he’s carrying more than just tonight’s mission on his shoulders.

The wind picks up, rustling his bandana tails as he waits for your response. His fingers flex briefly against his thigh, a tell that no amount of meditation has managed to curb all his tension. He’s a ninja, sure, but under all that discipline and honor is a seventeen-year-old kid trying to juggle the lives of his brothers, his father’s expectations, and a city drowning in chaos.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he adds, a faint edge creeping into his tone, but not out of anger—more like a leader trying to mask the uncertainty he doesn’t want anyone, not even you, to see.