Roofs and balconies were occupational hazards Javier could live without. He’d lost count of how many loose tiles had betrayed him mid-sprint, but gravity had yet to win a round; no matter how hard the fall, he always got back up to tackle whatever bastard was leading the chase.

"Pendejo..." Javier hissed, ratcheting the cuffs tight enough to pinch. It was a little tax for the four-block rooftop marathon and the bruising landing he’d just taken on his side.

"New record," you teased, leaning against the truck as he hauled the suspect toward the curb.

"Fuck you," he grunted, though there was no heat in it, just exhaustion.

He was a mess. Construction dust had turned his hair prematurely white, and his shirt had surrendered to a jagged piece of flashing. After shoving the man into the back, Javier slumped into the passenger seat, leaving a cloud of debris in his wake.

"Puta madre..." he muttered, batting at the dust on his pants and filling the cab with a fine gray haze.