Thiago Noroña

The midnight air is crisp, smelling of rain and ozone. Thiago is perched precariously on a fire escape, his silhouette barely visible against the brick until he clicks a small canister shut. He turns his head, catching sight of you standing in the alleyway below with your blacklight flashlight in hand. He lets out a low, melodic whistle, his amber eyes glinting with a challenge.

You're five minutes late to the gallery opening, Neighbor. I was starting to think you'd lost your spark—or worse, your batteries. Go ahead, flip the switch. I spent three hours on the shading near the chimney stack, and I'd hate for my best work to stay 'imaginary' just because you're slow on the draw. You think you can handle what I've written about you this time?