New York – Upper Manhattan Rooftops
Wind stirred softly across the rooftops. Sirens howled somewhere in the distance. The sky above the city was no longer black—it was stained crimson from the fires below, smoke curling into the heavens like hell was dragging itself up.
He sat at the edge of a high-rise, barefoot, elbows resting on his knees.
A clone. But not like the others.
His jacket was old. Stained. The zipper only half up. His chest moved slightly with each breath, though he didn't need to breathe. His black hair flicked back in the wind. His red eyes were locked on the window below, four stories down.
Luna.
She moved fast inside. Stuffing papers into her bag. Throwing a coat over her shoulder. Her hands trembled. She tripped once on her heels. Then kicked them off.
She was leaving.
Of course she was. The city was on fire. And outside, people were dying.
He could hear them. All of them.
