The city never slept, but it never truly lived either.
Kessan District was concrete stacked on concrete — block housing, gray factories, surveillance towers blinking red through the haze. Cameras watched every corner, and patrol boots drummed the same relentless rhythm, never out of step. Even laughter here was rationed.
The Directorate had slipped me in with forged papers and a new name — Alex. But names didn't mean much here. Everyone wore masks. What mattered was keeping your head down until the moment you needed to raise it.
That night, the streets hummed with the usual rhythm. Ration lines broke apart in grumbles, curfew crept closer with the heavy silence of doors locking. Regime agents leaned against lamp posts, too casual, hands tucked in coats — but their eyes never stopped counting faces. Every block felt like a stage, every passerby an unwilling actor.
I walked steady, carrying nothing but the weight of the folder in my head, until I caught the rhythm behind me.
Two shadows.
One block back.
Professionals would've kept their distance. Rotated tails. Let me doubt myself until the paranoia ate me alive. But these weren't professionals. Too close. Too direct. They wanted me to know.
I let them follow for three more turns, long enough to make sure they weren't just civilians with bad timing. Their pace matched mine too neatly. When I slowed, they slowed. When I crossed a street, they closed a little faster.
By the time I cut through an alley and scaled the fire escape, I'd already decided to take the high ground.
Kessan's rooftops weren't built for beauty. Flat slabs, tar paper, gravel, ventilation ducts humming faintly. Utilitarian, quiet. Good for catching your breath. Better for setting a trap.
I crouched low, waited, felt the city's dull heartbeat in the distance — patrol whistles, a truck rattling down an avenue, a baby crying two streets over. Then the fire escape rattled.
The first goon pulled himself up over the ledge, red-faced, breathing hard. Sloppy. His boots scraped loud enough to wake the dead. I caught his wrist, twisted, and sent him sprawling across the gravel. He hit hard, cursing, air wheezing out of his lungs.
The second was faster. He hauled himself up with more energy than sense and came straight at me, fist cocked. The swing was wide, predictable. I batted it aside, my counter landing square in his ribs. He doubled with a strangled grunt, but stubbornness carried him forward.
We traded blows in the dark. Block. Strike. Pivot. Another swing. My shoulder clipped his jaw; his knuckles skimmed my cheek. Each sound — flesh hitting flesh, gravel scattering under boots — felt too loud against the quiet sprawl of the city.
Finally, I buried my shoulder into his chest and drove him down hard beside his partner. Gravel scraped skin. Both men groaned, sprawled on the rooftop like sacks dropped by careless hands.
I stepped back, chest rising steady. Neither of them wore Regime insignia. Their coats were rough, mismatched, hands calloused but not disciplined. Too loud. Too clumsy. Mercenaries, then — or street muscle. Paid to intimidate. Paid to follow me.
Which raised a better question: who sent them?
I adjusted my coat, brushing grit from my sleeve, and turned — and froze.
Someone was already there.
She sat at the far end of the rooftop, knees drawn to her chest, dark hair falling across her face. In the glow of the city lights, her outline looked carved from shadow. Pale skin, sharp features — the kind of sharpness that comes from seeing too much too young.
She hadn't moved during the fight. Not a scream, not a flinch. Just watching.
For a second, the rooftop felt heavier.
"You shouldn't be here," I said, voice low.
Her lips parted, not with fear but with something closer to contempt. "If you were Regime," she said, steady and sharp, "they'd be dead. You don't move like them."
Her eyes locked on mine, measuring, unblinking. It wasn't trust — it was recognition.
I gave her nothing. Silence was safer.
The groans of the two men carried faintly behind me, but her gaze never wavered. I tried for the kind of easy expression that worked on most strangers — approachable, harmless — but even then, I knew my eyes betrayed me. Too sharp. Too weighing.
She didn't buy it. Just kept watching, like she'd seen men try to wear masks before.
I turned away, coat whispering against the gravel, vaulted back toward the fire escape, and left the goons sprawled behind me.
But her eyes stayed with me. Calm. Bitter. Far too knowing for a girl who looked barely out of school.
By the time my boots touched pavement again, the streets were emptying, curfew clamping down. Neon signs flickered out, shutters slammed closed. The city swallowed noise the way it swallowed light.
I moved on, but the memory of her lingered.
Who was she — and what was she doing in Kessan, sitting in the dark, watching fights play out like scenes she'd already memorized?