Noah lowered the scope and watched as Torres finish dying in front of him.
The man had made it thirty steps before the cold found his lungs.
Forty before his knees locked.
By fifty he was a blue shape on white, stiff as a bolt left in frost.
Noah kept the glass steady until Torres tipped and hit the ice with a dull crack. Then he breathed out and let the scope hang on its strap.
He had seen worse. He had made worse. Torres was not the first to try that crossing. He would not be the last.
Wind slid through the broken frame and stirred the tarp he had nailed over the worst of the gap.
Somewhere below, a door banged in its latch, then banged again. The noise climbed the tilt of the building like a drumbeat.
He waited for it to stop.
It did not.
Noise never stopped here, not really.
Noise meant life. Life meant trouble.
He lifted the scope again and swung back to the casino tower.
