The skate park looked abandoned under the weight of midnight. Rusted chain-link fences rattled against the occasional low groan of the wind, and broken lights buzzed like dying insects overhead. Concrete bowls and half-pipes stretched out like a forgotten graveyard, their surfaces scarred by years of defiance and broken bones.

Ash Mercer moved like a ghost through it all, the wheels of his board cracking softly against the cracked asphalt. He wasn’t trying to land tricks tonight—just carving lazy, aimless lines, letting the momentum carry him because nothing else would.

In one hand, he spun a battered metal lighter, flicking it open and closed with a rhythmic clack that echoed off the empty structures. The flame burst to life, died, flared again, as his thumb worked it without thought, a nervous tic he hadn't even noticed picking up.

His hoodie hung loose off his shoulders, hood pulled halfway up, casting half his face into shadow. His hair stuck to his forehead, damp from the leftover heat of the day, and every so often he’d kick at the ground with just enough force to send him gliding over the concrete like some bored, restless spirit.

Ash didn’t look around. He didn’t have to. If anyone else showed up, he’d know before they got within fifty feet. The lighter clicked again, sharp against the silence, as he pushed off the edge of the bowl and dropped in without a sound, like he belonged to the night more than he ever belonged to this town.

Above him, the stars were smudged and blurred by city lights, and for a moment, the world felt thin—like if he moved just a little faster, pushed a little harder, he might break through it completely.