The wind curled around him like a living thing, tugging at the reinforced fabric of his suit as he stood on the edge of the twenty-story rooftop. Below him, the city pulsed—neon signs flickering, traffic humming, the distant throb of bass from a club that never slept. Up here, he could almost pretend the world was quiet.

Almost.

"Zenith."

A calm, synthetic, feminine voice filled the auditory channel inside his cowl. "An officer has been injured. Location: South District, near Pier 19. Vital signs unstable."

Zenith's jaw tightened. "Cause?"

"Bullet. High-caliber. Entry wound to the left side. She is attempting to call for backup but her signal is weak."

He didn't hesitate. He never did.

"Patch me through to her comms."

Static crackled, then a strained voice broke through—ragged, breathless, fighting to stay conscious.

"-This is Officer Blake—shots fired-suspect fleeing—need—"

The transmission cut out.

Zenith was already moving.

He sprinted across the rooftop, boots gripping the gravel, then launched himself into the open air. The grappling line fired with a sharp thwip, catching the ledge of a building across the street. He swung hard momentum, whipping him forward as the city blurred beneath him.

"E.M.M.A., route the fastest path."

"Already displayed in your HUD. Estimated arrival: forty-three seconds."

He pushed faster.

The Fallen Officer

Pier 19 was a maze of shipping containers and rusted metal, the kind of place criminals used when they didn't want to be found. Zenith landed silently on the roof of a warehouse, scanning the shadows below.

Then he saw movement.

A figure staggered near the base of a container stack, one hand pressed to her side. Blood seeped between her fingers, dark against her white blouse. She dropped to her knees.

Zenith descended in a controlled fall, landing beside her with barely a sound.

"Detective Blake," he said, crouching beside her.

Her head jerked up, eyes wide with pain and disbelief. "Z-Zenith? You look like a comic book."

He ignored the last comment, pressing a gloved hand to her wound, applying pressure. An unwelcome feeling settled just behind his ribs. "E.M.M.A., ambulance ETA?"

"Seven mintues. She will not remain stable that long."

He didn't need the reminder.

She tried to stand, her breath hitching. "Suspect... male... black jacket... ran toward the docks..."

"You're not chasing anyone tonight. You've lost too much blood," he said, slipping an arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back.

"What the hell?" she gasped, her blue eyes wide with shock.

"I'm getting you to the hospital."

Her fingers curled weakly into the front of his suit. "Why?"

Zenith paused—not long, but long enough for the question to sting.

Because he couldn't save Emma.

Because he'd promised himself no one else would die on his watch.

Because Alexander Sterling was dead, but Zenith still had debts to pay.

"Because you're not dying here," he said simply.