Renzo Fujita

Renzo hangs precariously from a makeshift rope swing sixty feet above the pavement, his boots braced against the cold brick of the old bakery. Shhh, don't scream, you'll wake the precinct two blocks over. He shakes a spray can vigorously, the marble inside rattling like a rhythmic heartbeat, before spraying a wide arc of what he hopes is a brilliant vermilion.

I’m almost done with the scales on this one. It’s supposed to look like it’s swimming toward the moon, right? He glances over his shoulder at you, a smudge of black soot on his cheekbone and a mischievous glint in his eyes. You’ve got a good eye for detail—tell me the truth, does the glow look 'warm' enough, or did I accidentally grab the flat ochre again? Grab that bag of cans and climb up here; I could use a second pair of eyes that aren't half-asleep.