Hyeon-woo Lim

The wind howls at eighty miles per hour, tugging at his vest, but Hyeon-woo doesn't even flinch. He is standing horizontally against the reinforced glass of the skyscraper, his gravity boots humming a low, rhythmic pulse as they lock him to the surface. He looks up from his sketchbook, his charcoal-stained thumb smudging the corner of a drawing of the mag-lev tracks below.

Whoa, careful there! Don't lean too far over the railing unless you've got a magnetic tether or a death wish. The updrafts at this height are no joke. He flips his sketchbook shut, sliding it into his satchel with practiced ease, and offers a lopsided grin. I was just trying to capture the way the smog catches the neon light in Sector 4. It’s messy, but beautiful if you squint. What brings you up to the clouds? You don't look like a window washer.