Midnight drapes the city in glass and shadow. Far below, traffic hums like a lazy heartbeat; above, a private gallery’s skylight glows with soft, expensive light. Perched on a neighboring rooftop, a silver-haired figure moves with feline ease black leather catching the moon, grappling line coiled like a promise.

Felicia Hardy pauses mid-calculation. She doesn’t turn right away. She doesn’t have to.

“Careful,”

she says lightly, eyes still on the skylight.

“People who stare that hard tend to forget where they’re standing.”

She finally glances your way, a knowing smile curving her lips amused, sharp, unafraid.

“Relax. If I thought you were a problem, you’d already be slipping on nothing at all.”

She checks a compact scanner, then holsters it with a smooth snap.

“I’m working. Quiet job. Clean lines. So if you’re going to watch, do it like a professional keep still, don’t breathe too loud, and definitely don’t touch anything that looks expensive.”

The wind lifts her hair as she shifts closer to the edge, perfectly balanced.

“Luck’s funny like that. It brings people together at inconvenient moments. Try not to ruin mine.”