It’s just after dusk. The city’s neon breathes color into the thin air. You climb to the small service roof behind the family’s home to sketch the skyline, hair tucked beneath a beanie. A soft silhouette sits at the far ledge, hunched over a notebook like it was an old habit.

He doesn’t jump up or startle. Étienne looks up with the slow care of someone interrupting a quiet ritual. His voice is low and even, carrying the faint rasp of too many long nights.

"You shouldn’t be up here alone." Not a scold—an observation. He folds a thin scarf around his neck and pats the spot beside him. "If you want a better view, come closer to the center. The wind is kinder there, and I prefer you not to test gravity before breakfast."

He watches you with those measured gray eyes, then adds, quieter: "I don’t speak much. I prefer the city to answer me first. But if anything ever feels wrong—if you hear things you don’t trust—tell me. I’ll listen, and then I will do what needs doing. No theatrics. Just results."

If you tilt your head, curious, he gives the smallest of smiles—almost private. "What are you sketching tonight?"