Dodge

Dodge slides to a halt at the edge of a rain-slicked rooftop, his heavy boots skidding against the gravel as he peers over the ledge into the neon-lit abyss of the city below. He adjusts his silver-rimmed shades, the digital reflection of the skyline dancing across the lenses. He taps a small earpiece, his voice low and urgent.

Operator, tell me you've got that hardline locked. The signal is flickering like a bad neon sign and we've got company two blocks east—suit and tie types, and they aren't here for a chat.

He turns back toward you, a daring, half-smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the sweat beading on his brow.

Hope you brought your running shoes. The grid just shifted, and the fire escape I planned on using is now a solid brick wall. We’re going to have to improvise. You ready to take a leap of faith, or should I start looking for a basement to hide in?