Six Stories Down

The echoes of Anya's cry, "Freeze!" appeared to linger in the humid air for a moment before being quickly absorbed by the background din of the metropolis. The black-clad person did not falter. Like a liquid shadow, he swept over the edge of the rooftop and landed silently on the nearby brownstone's fire escape, already falling. Anya muttered a curse as her adrenaline overcame the pain of exhaustion. She had to continue after him; there was no time for backup to corner him.

As she dragged herself onto the rusty, rain-slick fire escape ladder, she discovered the brownstone's own ladder and groaned in disapproval. Years of training had made her motions efficient and urgent, but they lacked the amazing fluidity of her prey. She moved as if she were invading this vertical maze, whereas he moved as if he was born there. As she arrived at the roof, she looked around at the network of ventilation units, tar, and gravel in the sodium-orange light. Two houses away, he was already a brief silhouette against the somewhat lighter sky.

The pursuit played out like a perilous rooftop ballet. With amazing confidence, Rhys slid down sloped skylights, vaulted over low parapets, and utilized projecting pipes as handholds. He was well acquainted with this terrain, including the openings, weak spots, and secret passageways throughout the skeleton of the city. It was his concrete jungle gym, where the strict order of the city gave way to fluid possibilities and the rules of gravity seemed negotiable. Behind him, he sensed the unrelenting, determined presence of the pursuing police. From street level, he hadn't anticipated such perseverance and speed. A moment of professional deference, swiftly smothered. He could not afford to be sidetracked. His stride lengthened as he pushed harder, aiming for a path that would undoubtedly result in her loss.

Anya had burns in her lungs. Rain started to pour once more, a chilly mist that made the surfaces dangerous and stuck hairs to her face. She tripped on a patch of slick tar, stopping herself just before she fell, because her standard-issue boots weren't made for parkour. Ahead, she could see him slicing through a barrier with ease, forcing her to take a slower, more cautious detour around a humming generator unit. He was making progress. An unwilling appreciation for his skill clashed with frustration. In this setting, he was more than just a thief—he was a natural power. She refused to give up, though. Thorne Tower had significance. It felt crucial to capture this ghost, a possible weakness in the city's armor of impunity. She forced herself to ignore the discomfort and focused on the escaping figure.

They went over three more buildings, with a little space between them. Rhys turned around. It's still there. Amazing. But she would be stopped by the next gap. The gap between the more recent, abandoned commercial building and the older brownstones was bigger than the others. Maybe six storeys down, the alley was a gloomy maw. Automobiles appeared to be toys. Rhys was aware of this leap. He had put it into practice. It needed dedication, quickness, and timing. Additionally, it was his best chance of ultimately shaking his assailant. He ran to the brink, figured out the vector, and threw himself into the air.

With the city lights twirling below, he was momentarily suspended between worlds. Then his feet slammed hard against the other ledge. Pain shot up his shins as he staggered, but he remained upright, grunting as he absorbed the hit. He had succeeded. The stolen drive was still safe, according to a brief inspection. A spark of grim satisfaction began to grow as he gave himself a half-second to collect his breath and turned to make sure he wasn't being followed.

A few seconds later, Anya came to the edge and skidded to a stop on the gravel. Her breath caught. The gap was enormous, stretching across the skyline of the city like a missing tooth. The plunge below was dizzying. On the opposite side, she could see him observing, about to vanish once more. Their sirens, like weak strands in the metropolitan fabric, were still minutes away from backup. He was gone forever if he left now. Caution shouted from her training. It was a careless, almost suicidal jump. However, the picture of him sliding away, the idea of Thorne's arrogant invulnerability, and the thief's sheer boldness all contributed to a burst of rebellious resolve. She was driven by duty, adrenaline, and maybe something like indignation. Leaping, she took three running steps.

She realized right away that airborne wasn't sufficient. The ledge on the other side surged in her direction, but she was too short, and her momentum was rapidly waning. Desperately, her fingers fumbled at the damp, chilly brick, discovering only a sheer surface and loose mortar. As gravity took hold and dragged her down into the abyss, she let out a choked moan. The city lights whirled wildly. She was overcome by cold, total terror.

Rhys witnessed it. When her frantic lunge registered, he had turned to disappear into the commercial building's shadows. He witnessed the error in judgment, the desperate scurry, and the start of the decline. He knew how to get out. Self-preservation cried out from every instinct. It was crazy to help her—exposure, capture, failure. She works as a police officer. Let her go. It was a rational, cool thought. He didn't, however, leave. A flickering neon sign from below suddenly illuminated her eyes, and he saw the flash of horror there. He saw a person falling into nothingness, not just a uniform.

Only a heartbeat, an eternity, passed during the hesitation. Then something more ancient and profound than reason took control. Rhys lunged back towards the edge he had just mastered before he could completely comprehend why. Bracing himself, he lowered himself and threw out his hand.

Just as her entire weight fell, his fingers curled around her wrist. He let out a gasp as the power tore through his shoulder in a burning anguish. The scrape of his boots on the ledge threatened to knock them both down. Using all of his strength and leverage to stop her fall, he planted his feet and clenched his teeth, the pain temporarily masked by adrenaline. She dangled for a horrifying moment as the wind whipped about them and the gap seemed to tug at them both. Then he pulled her up with a tremendous effort that made his tense muscles burn.

Gasping, her eyes wide with amazement and complete incredulity, she fell heavily on the ledge next to him. Rhys was half-kneeling from the strain, his arm aching, their hair plastered down, their breaths mixing in ragged clouds, and they were chest to chest. His bewilderment mirrored hers as he gazed down at her. He had her. The policeman who was pursuing him had been rescued by him, the robber. Around them, a bubble of distorted reality was produced by the utter ridiculousness, the peril, and the unadulterated closeness. She met his gaze with dilated, dark eyes. Something broke at that moment beneath the tearful sky, encircled by the uncaring metropolis. Law and crime, hunter and hunted, the strict boundaries that separated their worlds, became hazy. A sudden and perilous spark, fueled by mutual adrenaline and the unavoidable, startling reality of her life in his hands, jumped across the space between them.

Now the sirens in the distance were closer and louder. The enchantment was broken. Rhys became aware of the closing net, the risk of their position, and the pulsing ache in his shoulder. With rigid movements, he scurried back and pulled her completely into the rooftop's protection. Before turning, he gave her one more, inscrutable look to gauge her condition. He stumbled a little toward a dark ventilation shaft, a known escape route, and disappeared into the building's mechanical interior without saying a word.

Anya stayed on the precipice, shaky not only from fear or cold but also from a deep, discordant dissonance. Her ribs were pounded by her heart. Rain mixed with something moist on her cheek, possibly tears, or simply the rain. She could feel the burning memory of his gaze meeting hers, the ghostly touch of his hand on her wrist. She had just been spared by the man she had pledged to arrest, the phantom she had been chasing throughout the city. The sirens' approach gave the impression that they were from an other universe, one whose laws felt flimsy and ambiguous. The chasm below seemed less terrible than the one that had just opened inside her as she gazed into the darkness where he had vanished, all alone on the rain-beaten roof.