Int. Hospital Rooftop(Night) 2 Days Later November 6th, 2025
The city of Crestfall was a beast of steel and neon, but tonight it held its breath. On most nights, the streets rattled with honking horns, revving engines and the grind of tires.
Heat from the baking asphalt clinging to skin; the air reeked with thick exhaust fumes and fried food, a chaos that nearly rivaled New York's restless buzz of life.
Scents always drifted through the air as people went about their nights grilled food from street vendors, perfume lingering after a passerby, smoke curling from open windows.
Music spilled from clubs and sometimes from houses where no one felt like going out. Sirens were a familiar chorus, called up whenever trouble found its way into the crowd.
Yet for all its noise, Crestfall was usually at peace a city alive with cultures mingling, people weaving their lives together into a restless, joyful community.
But tonight, that unity was broken. The city lay unnaturally still, its usual voice cut off. Only the ocean spoke, waves brushing against the rocks at the edge of the silence.
The neon signs had gone dark, smothering Crestfall in shadows where light usually screamed. The streets lay deserted, hollow echoes bouncing between buildings as a crumpled newspaper scraped across the pavement.
The stench of damp trash and gasoline clung to the air, mixing with the faint sweetness of rotting Halloween candy from decorations that now sagged, broken and abandoned, waiting for the city to sweep them away.
Above, the sky was pitch black. A drizzle swelled into a heavy downpour, each raindrop striking like needles on skin, metallic in taste when it hit the lips. It was as if the heavens themselves wept for the souls lost in recent days.
High above the grid of concrete and steel, a lone figure stood. He leaned against the guardrail, rain soaking through his long trench coat until the fabric stuck heavy against his frame.
The wind was a cold, biting thing, howling through the gaps in the rooftop, tearing at the coat and whipping it around his legs. The sharp tang of smoke still lingered on his tongue, though the cigarette between his lips had drowned, its glow smothered beneath the storm.
Still, he lingered. His eyes glimmered with regret, rain streaming down his face like tears. His knuckles blanched white as he clutched the railing, the metal slick and freezing beneath his grip. In one ear, a radio crackled through the static, its tinny voice cutting through the night.
"Over the past few days, multiple lives have been lost," the announcer droned, hollow and distant. "The city's murder rate continues to climb as investigations into the bodies found across Crestfall intensify."
The man let out a ragged sigh, his breath fogging in the chill air, thick with the smell of ozone and rain. He closed his eyes as if to block out the words, but he didn't turn away. His gaze remained fixed on the city below, listening to its silence, feeling its absence.
The rain began, finally turning into a downpour that washed the dirty streets. As if the sky was trying to wash away the sins of the city.
The city streets blurred into long, shimmering streaks, and for a moment, the world looked as if it were melting. The man's vision blurred, but if it was tears or the rain; you couldn't tell.
"Sources say the suspect was a vigilante escaping police after setting a bomb off," the reporter's voice continued, a slight tremor in its tone. "Though the police commissioner refused to comment at this time."
The man on the rooftop said nothing. He simply watched, his mind a thousand miles away. Maybe if he did things differently, maybe if he would've killed the man responsible when he had a chance.
Then maybe so many people wouldn't have lost their lives. Every death that happens it feels as if he was responsible for it.
The man could hear a few cars driving on the road. The last of the stragglers trying to get home before the city wide curfew of 9:00pm.
"Amongst the murders city wide crime has dropped by over fifty percent in the last week," the reporter announced, a hint of awe in her voice. "Though police have advised people not to leave their homes after 9 p.m. for safety. With people being caught after 10 p.m being considered aiding the murder and arrested."
A grim smile touched his lips. He finally turned, and in the dim light, his face was a mask of weary resolve. The name was Blake, one of the serving officers from the 93rd police precinct.
The other member who survived was an officer named Gabriel. A detective that joined homicide only a few years prior.
"The whole city is holding its breath," he thought, the rain blurring his vision. "And they think we're the heroes. That we can save them but after everything I saw. I don't think we can save ourselves"