We hadn't stopped running since then.
The drones swept the rooftops in tight arcs and jittery patterns, erratic enough to stay unpredictable, precise enough to feel intentional. Dawn led, her instincts tuned to every shift in light, every ripple of air. I stayed close behind, lungs raw, legs long past warning. We slipped behind ventilation units, crawled through shaft gaps, moved when the wind did. The city felt like a circuit board, and above us the sky buzzed with it.
But the drones didn't catch us.
Their hum faded into the distance, and with it the pressure in our chests. Not relief, exactly, just space to breathe again. Neither of us said anything. Quiet's a superstition. You don't name it if you want it to last.
So we kept moving.
We nearly lost the trail once, near the DGA building. No clear crossings, no anchors, no cover, just bare rooftops and the ache of exhaustion. That's when we saw it: the south tower of the Skyline Hotel. Unassuming. Familiar.
Inside: a maintenance elevator. Manual override.
A way out.
But the jump was wide.
Wider than I liked. Wider than I could lie to myself about.
We stopped at the ledge. Wind tugged at our jackets. The sun was sinking, bleeding soft copper over the city, throwing our shadows long behind us.
I stared at the gap. Measured it once. Then again. My fingers twitched. I stepped back.
Dawn turned to face me.
Her voice stayed steady. Calm. "We've made worse jumps."
"This one's wide," I said. "And I'm slower than you."
"You're not slow. You're exhausted," she said, and held out her hand. "Take mine."
I hesitated. The space between the buildings wasn't just distance. It was the part of my body that wanted to choose caution and call it wisdom.
Then I took her hand.
One breath.
Two.
We ran.
Together.
Concrete thundered under our feet. Wind slammed into us, tearing sound from the edges. At the lip, Dawn shouted something. Words I didn't catch, but I felt the intent of them.
We jumped.
Time stretched. Elastic and wrong.
We overshot.
The far rooftop rose fast. Too fast, too close. We hit the side of the elevator shaft with a brutal clang, scrambled for footing, landed in a tangle of limbs and momentum. We skidded. Rolled. Stopped.
Then silence.
Then breath.
Shallow. Sharp. Then slower.
We stayed like that, wrapped together in impact and exhaustion, letting the rooftop hold what the sky had tried to shake loose.
Dawn laughed. Low, unguarded.
"We made it," she said.
Then she reached out and pressed the elevator button.
Released on February 28, 2026 (26_6)
License: CC-BY-NC-ND / UDL