The sky sagged under the weight of storm-heavy clouds, a grim ceiling smothering the city in a cold, listless drizzle.
Rain whispered over concrete and glass, slicking rooftops and pooling in dark alleys far below. From the edge of a hospital's rooftop, Ryn sat motionless, legs dangling over the side like the limbs of a forgotten marionette.
The wind tugged at his torn hero costume—what was left of it—and plastered the scorched, blood-specked fabric to his skin.
The city sprawled beneath him, oblivious. Neon signs flickered. Cars hissed through wet streets. Life moved on, indifferent.
He didn't.
Dried blood clung to the shallow gashes carved along his arms. Dark bruises bloomed across his ribs and jaw, each one pulsing with the dull throb of memory.
His body ached, but it was nothing compared to the storm roiling inside. His gaze stayed fixed on the sky—those swirling gray clouds, thick with unfallen thunder. They looked like how he felt. Heavy. Torn. Close to breaking.
