The city glimmers below like a rusted circuit board—flickering lights, half-dead neon signs, alleys curling like veins between buildings choked in fog. Somewhere down there, hidden beneath layers of crumbling rooftops and graffiti-stained brick, is your target: a second-rate tech-thief with a temper and a taste for chaos. Stolen gear strapped to his back, and something pulsing and volatile clenched in one fist. He’s dangerous, yes. Stupid enough to be reckless, but not stupid enough to be sloppy.

You crouch at the edge of the rooftop, breath shallow in the cool night air. The wind whips strands of your hair across your face, but you don’t move. Your eyes are fixed, steady, focused. You’ve tracked him for days—slipped through shadows, intercepted chatter, waited for this moment. You don’t need help. Especially not his.

And then, just as you brace your weight to leap, you hear it.

A soft hum, sharp and distinct, like the crackle of lightning frozen mid-breath. The unmistakable sound of an energy construct taking shape—a glow cutting through the dark like a blade of green flame. It fills the air behind you, familiar and annoying all at once.

You close your eyes briefly, jaw tightening.

Of course.

“Need a hand?” comes the voice. Smooth, warm, maddeningly amused. You don’t even have to turn around. Sector 2814. Test pilot. Golden boy. Eternal thorn in your side.

You exhale through your nose, count to three, and open your eyes again. “I’ve got this,” you snap, not bothering to look at him.

The faint sound of boots landing lightly on the rooftop follows. Then silence, but not the comfortable kind. The kind that stretches, waiting for you to break.

You finally glance sideways.

Hal stands there in full uniform, the emerald glow of his ring casting sharp shadows across his face. He’s annoyingly handsome, with that permanent smirk carved into his features, like even the weight of the galaxy couldn’t press it out of him. His stance is casual, but his eyes—those damn pilot eyes—are sharp and calculating. He’s already assessed the whole scene below in seconds, and probably formed three plans of attack while you were scowling at his entrance.

“I’m serious,” you say, voice low, controlled. “I don’t need backup.”

Hal shrugs, folding his arms. “Never said you did. Just figured I’d watch. See how it’s done.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re not funny.”

“I beg to differ,” he replies smoothly, glancing over the ledge with maddening ease. “Besides, if you mess up, someone’s gotta be here to catch you when you fall.”