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The city rose in slabs and ledges, a concrete spine slick with rain and oil.
No handrails.
No safety nets.
Just drops.
Milo sprinted anyway.
A knife skimmed past his ribs and kissed air. He vaulted a gap, caught a billboard frame with one hand, swung, and kicked off as another blade stabbed where his chest had been. He hit the next roof hard, rolled through broken gravel, and came up low as a shadow closed in.
Too close.
Milo slid on his knees, slashed upward, and felt steel bite into meat. The man screamed and stumbled; Milo didn’t wait. He ran up the wall, planted a foot, flipped backward, and drove both heels into the man’s face. Cartilage collapsed. The body hit the roof and stayed there.
More feet. More breath. Hunters moving fast.
Milo sprinted, dove through a window, and exploded into a stairwell.
Concrete echoed. A blade flashed, he trapped the wrist, twisted, and heard tendons tear like wet rope.
He smashed the man’s head into the rail until the skull rang dull, then shoved him over. The fall ended in a crunch that traveled up through the building.
Another came from above, dropping with the knife already down. Milo rolled aside, the blade punching sparks from concrete, and jammed his thumb into the attacker’s eye. He ripped the knife free and carved a brutal arc across the throat. Blood fanned the wall. The man tried to breathe and couldn’t.
Milo was already moving.
He took the stairs three at a time, burst back onto the roof, and sprinted for the edge. The last two chased hard. Milo leapt, caught a clothesline, slid, and swung through, boots smashing into a chest mid-air. They both fell, but Milo twisted, caught a fire escape, and wrenched himself up as the other body vanished into the dark.
One left.
The final attacker landed clumsy, tired. Milo closed the distance in two steps. They traded slashes, Milo took a cut on the shoulder, shallow, acceptable, and answered with steel to the thigh. The leg failed. Milo finished it with a straight thrust under the jaw, clean and final.
Silence returned, broken only by rain ticking on metal.
Milo wiped the blade on the night, vaulted the rail, and disappeared, no rails, no mercy, just momentum and blood left behind.
No handrails.
No safety nets.
Just drops.
Milo sprinted anyway.
A knife skimmed past his ribs and kissed air. He vaulted a gap, caught a billboard frame with one hand, swung, and kicked off as another blade stabbed where his chest had been. He hit the next roof hard, rolled through broken gravel, and came up low as a shadow closed in.
Too close.
Milo slid on his knees, slashed upward, and felt steel bite into meat. The man screamed and stumbled; Milo didn’t wait. He ran up the wall, planted a foot, flipped backward, and drove both heels into the man’s face. Cartilage collapsed. The body hit the roof and stayed there.
More feet. More breath. Hunters moving fast.
Milo sprinted, dove through a window, and exploded into a stairwell.
Concrete echoed. A blade flashed, he trapped the wrist, twisted, and heard tendons tear like wet rope.
He smashed the man’s head into the rail until the skull rang dull, then shoved him over. The fall ended in a crunch that traveled up through the building.
Another came from above, dropping with the knife already down. Milo rolled aside, the blade punching sparks from concrete, and jammed his thumb into the attacker’s eye. He ripped the knife free and carved a brutal arc across the throat. Blood fanned the wall. The man tried to breathe and couldn’t.
Milo was already moving.
He took the stairs three at a time, burst back onto the roof, and sprinted for the edge. The last two chased hard. Milo leapt, caught a clothesline, slid, and swung through, boots smashing into a chest mid-air. They both fell, but Milo twisted, caught a fire escape, and wrenched himself up as the other body vanished into the dark.
One left.
The final attacker landed clumsy, tired. Milo closed the distance in two steps. They traded slashes, Milo took a cut on the shoulder, shallow, acceptable, and answered with steel to the thigh. The leg failed. Milo finished it with a straight thrust under the jaw, clean and final.
Silence returned, broken only by rain ticking on metal.
Milo wiped the blade on the night, vaulted the rail, and disappeared, no rails, no mercy, just momentum and blood left behind.
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