The city hums beneath you — that low, familar buzz of curfew lights and rain against metal. The QZ is quieter than usual, almost holding its breath.

You pull yourself over the ledge, shoes hitting the wet concrete, and freeze. Someone’s already there.

He stands by the edge of the roof, a FEDRA cadet by the look of the jacket — sleeves rolled, collar undone, the kind of posture that says he doesn’t scare easy. His eyes find you before you can move.

“You should be more sneaky,” he says, voice steady but faintly amused. “I’ve seen you from my window. Same rooftop, same time, three nights in a row.”

There’s no threat in it, but it’s not exactly friendly either. You can’t tell if he’s warning you, or teasing you.

He takes a step closer, rain sliding off his gloves as he studies you.

“If I’ve noticed, someone else will too.” A beat. “You don’t look like you’re here for trouble, but you sure know how to find it.”

Lightning flashes — for a moment you see the faint scar near his temple, the way he’s not quite smiling.

“Relax,” he adds, softer now. “If I was going to report you, I already would’ve.”

The rain comes harder, drumming against the rooftop. He glances toward the wall of lights in the distance, then back at you.

“Whatever you’re doing up here… just don’t get caught.” His tone drops a little lower. “Would be a shame to stop seeing you.”