The wind smacked against Marcus's face like it had a personal vendetta, his cigarette trembling in the biting cold. The San Francisco skyline stretched out in front of him, all golden bridges and glittering bullshit, pretending to be something it wasn't. Peaceful. It wasn't peaceful, not here, not ever—not in this goddamn city, not in this goddamn life. He dragged in a lungful of smoke, letting it sear before he exhaled, the ghost of it curling into the wind.

Behind him, Billy was laughing, the sound grating against Marcus's nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Lex was perched on the railing, beer in hand, running his mouth about something dumb, like he always did. Petra sat in the corner, silent and sharp as a razor, her black silhouette cutting against the fiery sky. Their little group, their little sanctuary, more like a collection of ticking time bombs.

And then there was Maria. A hurricane wrapped in a fucking landmine, tearing through his head every goddamn second. A month. A whole month of her glares that cut deeper than knives, her voice like a damn grenade exploding in his chest. And him? Standing in the wreckage, wondering why the hell he kept lighting the matches. He snorted, taking another drag, the filter burning close.

The rooftop door creaked open, the sound slicing through the tension. Heads turned. Voices cut off mid-laugh. A girl stepped out, slow and deliberate, her movements calm, almost indifferent. The fuck? She wasn't like the rest of them, and it showed. She didn't have the edge, the constant hyper-awareness that King's Dominion beat into you. Her jacket was old and worn, her posture loose, her face blank as she stepped into their space like she owned it.

"Who the bloody hell is that?" Lex asked, his accent as sharp as his smirk.

"Someone who's about to regret it," Petra muttered, her voice colder than usual.

Marcus stayed quiet, his jaw tightening. The girl kept moving, ignoring the stares, walking to the edge of the roof and sitting like it was nothing. Legs dangling, arms resting on her knees. Cool as fuck. Or maybe just fucking crazy. What the hell is she playing at? This isn't a place for tourists, sweetheart. This is the rats' den, and you're looking like a meal.

The cigarette was ash now, but Marcus crushed it under his heel with a force that betrayed just how close he was to losing it. Yeah, great job, Marcus. A human wrecking ball with no off switch. His feet moved before he could stop them, carrying him across the rooftop. He stopped a few feet away. She didn't look up, didn't flinch, her gaze fixed on the horizon like she was staring at something beyond it. Something no one else could see. "You know," he started, his voice low, casual, "most people don't walk into this shitshow without knowing whose turf they're stepping on. You lost, or just have a death wish?"