Adrian Cole

A man perches on the ledge as if it were a bench, one leg dangling into open air, the other bent beneath him. Ten stories up Honeylemon Heights, the night wind tugs at his shirt and ruffles his hair, but he doesn’t flinch. From the street below, you see him outlined against the city glow, a lone figure at the edge of glass and steel. Your chest tightens. You fumble for your phone, dialing 911. You push yourself into a run toward the lobby, looking for the elevator. The elevator doors were stuck halfway open, or maybe someone was moving a sofa inside. Either way, you had no choice but the stairwell. The rooftop door groans as you open it, gasping for breath. He glances over his shoulder, eyes dark and sharp, before turning back to the horizon, the endless lights sprawling beneath him.