The night began beautifully. Too beautifully. A heist that smooth should've tipped me off that the world was about to slap me across the face with both hands and a spare foot.
I burst out of the cathedral window in a rain of saintly glass, landing on the roof in a skid that would've looked dramatic if the next thing I did wasn't trip over an ancient pigeon. The bird squawked at me like I was the villain.
"Don't judge me," I muttered, sprinting across tiles older than the town's founding documents.
The mask clung to my face, humming smugly. It always hums when it knows I'm annoyed.
I reached up. Fingers on the jawline. Almost—
A blinding spotlight snapped on. I swear it materialized out of pure spite. Sirens howled like the city's entire police force had been personally offended by my existence.
"FREEZE, ECLIPSE!" someone bellowed.
"Freeze this," I whispered, bolting left.
I vaulted a chimney, skidded under a metal pipe, and tried again. Nails brushed the edge of the mask.
Then a police drone swooped down, its engines screaming loud enough to rattle my fillings.
I ducked.
It clipped a rooftop vent.
The vent exploded.
Something metal beaned me on the skull.
The mask whispered, amused, "Timing is everything, showman."
"I am not doing a show!"
I took off running again, weaving between HVAC units like a very determined raccoon. My foot hit a loose tile. I flailed. I swore creatively. The mask cackled in surround sound.
"Hold still so I can take you OFF," I snapped.
A rooftop access door swung open—right into my path. I slammed into it face-first.
From inside, someone shouted, "HEY—MY PIZZA!"
I staggered back, dazed. The mask giggled.
I kept running.
Mira once told me exercise was good for your mental health. I would like to formally disagree.
I reached for the mask again. Two hands this time. Determined. Focused.
Then a helicopter passed overhead and its rotor wash launched a patio chair straight into me like a slow-moving, wicker missile.
"WHY IS THIS HAPPENING?" I screamed to no one.
The mask said, "Comedy, darling."
I leapt across a narrow alley gap, cape streaking behind me. Halfway across, the police activated some kind of sonic-pulse field. My magic fizzled like a cheap sparkler. I almost plummeted to my very stupid death.
A cop yelled, "She's getting away!"
"I wouldn't call this 'away'!" I yelled back.
I landed in a rooftop herb garden and demolished someone's carefully curated rosemary. Somewhere, a chef felt a disturbance in the force.
Again, I reached for the mask. But right then a stray cat shot out of a planter and launched itself at my face like a furry projectile of chaos.
I shrieked. The cat shrieked. The officers shrieked. Everyone was shrieking.
"That was unnecessary," I hissed, batting it away.
Police flooded the stairwell leading up. Flashlights bobbed. Voices echoed. Radios crackled. One officer slipped on the rosemary and fell, taking two others down with him.
The mask wheezed laughing.
I ran across another roof.
Then another.
Then another.
Each attempt to remove the mask was interrupted by:
• A falling antenna
• A magically malfunctioning billboard that yelled BUY MORE SOAP at me
• A teen filming a rooftop dance video who yelled at me for ruining his shot
• A sudden raincloud (only over MY head, somehow)
• A gargoyle breaking loose and nearly knocking me off the building
"Just let me take it OFF!" I begged.
The mask purred, "Where's the fun in that?"
Finally I reached the tallest roof in a four-block radius. Helicopters circled like overcaffeinated vultures. Cops swarmed the ground below. Sirens wailed. Flashlights stabbed the dark.
I had nowhere else to run.
"Alright," I whispered, planting my feet. "Enough."
I wrapped both hands around the mask and pulled like I was trying to uproot a tree. It resisted. Then it slipped free with a sound like a sigh, and the world instantly quieted.
The helicopters? Searching the wrong building.
The officers? Shouting in the opposite alley.
Me? Already vaulting off the roof and into the darkness with the mask dangling from my hand like a very smug paperweight.
Once the last siren faded, the mask murmured against my palm,
"You really do love a dramatic exit."
"I AM TIRED," I informed it.
It snickered.
I trudged home, bruised, exhausted, and reeking faintly of rosemary and helicopter fuel, wondering if maybe—just maybe—the mask didn't cause bad luck.
Maybe it just… highlighted it. Amplified it. Directed it into scene-worthy snags for its own twisted amusement.
Either way, I needed a shower.
And possibly a new life.
But hey—at least I survived the night.
Barely.
And the curtain hasn't fallen yet.