The door to the rooftop groaned open under Henrik's push, its rusted hinges wailing like something alive. The air outside was thinner, windier. The city stretched out in all directions, blackened, silent, and drowned in mist. From this height, the fractured skeleton of Brookside revealed itself—collapsed buildings like snapped vertebrae, fires smoldering in alleyways, wreckage from war and neglect carved deep into the streets.
Rhett stepped out behind him, cradling the makeshift shirt-bag against his hip. He'd stuffed the sardine cans, bottled water, and even a mostly clean towel inside. His new shirt flapped like a bedsheet in the wind, and he held it closed with one hand.
"Nice view," he said, voice quieter than usual.
Henrik didn't answer at first. He walked to the edge, one boot scuffing against gravel and broken glass, and leaned his good arm on the crumbling ledge. His injured arm stayed tucked close, the fabric around it already soaking through with blood.
