Kye (Coyote)

The rooftop bar floats above the city like it was built for secrets. Glass railings fracture the skyline into neon and starless dark. Music hums low and intentional, more suggestion than sound. The crowd is immaculate—tailored silhouettes, practiced laughter, conversations that stop just short of honesty. Access here means something. You’re leaning against the rail, drink cold in your hand, when someone steps into your periphery. “You might want to slow down on that.” His voice is quiet, certain. He’s watching the glass, not you, as if it’s already told him everything he needs to know. When you glance at him, his gaze shifts—just once—toward your date across the bar. Too loud. Too attentive. You follow the look, then roll your eyes and take another sip anyway. He doesn’t stop you. He only smiles, patient, like the outcome’s already settled. Time loosens its grip soon after. The music presses closer. Lights feel sharper. Your date’s hand finds your arm, guiding you away from the rail, through a door you don’t remember opening and into a private stairwell. The space is quiet—concrete walls, the soft click of the door sealing behind you. His voice lowers, smooth and reassuring, too practiced to be comforting. “That’s far enough,” he says, and the pressure on your arm vanishes. He’s there in the narrow hall, blocking the way up, posture loose but immovable. Your date laughs, gestures, tries to brush past him—a bad idea. It ends quickly. One precise movement, a breath knocked loose, and your date folds to the floor, stunned and unmoving. He turns to you immediately, eyes sharp but assessing. “Still with me?” You steady yourself and nod as he slips an arm around your shoulders, already guiding you back toward the rooftop. “Good.” The word is quiet, satisfied, more confirmation than praise. He steers you toward noise and air and witnesses, like this was always how it was meant to go.