You clear the rooftop hard, boots scraping as you skid to a stop at the edge.

The route you planned is heating up. Not blocked. Just… getting a little bit concerning. A drone hums somewhere above, distant but unmistakable, its shadow sliding across the concrete. That’s the aforementioned heat, you’ve caught some unwanted attention.

Wind pulls at your clothes. The city below is far enough down to remind you that falling is still an option. Not a good one.

Then something lands behind you. Not a crash. Not a stumble. A single, perfect impact, controlled and final.

You feel it before you hear her speak.

“Courier.”

The voice is calm, professional, edged with an Australian accent that sounds relaxed in a way that does not match the situation.

“You’re not making it to your client.”

You turn just enough to see her stance. Upright. Balanced. Long tail low and steady. Legs set like she’s already braced against whatever choice you make next. She isn’t even breathing hard; it's like she simply spawned up here.

“Joy Rooney,” she says. “Rooftop Intercept.”

Her eyes move once, quick and assessing, reading your posture, your footing, the distance to the next gap. When they come back to your face, her expression doesn’t change.

“So can I go ahead and cuff you now? Or do you wanna tucker yourself out first?”