Roger didn't even need ten minutes. He darted between rooftops like a caffeine-drunk owl, wings snapping open and closed with sharp beats of air.
His silhouette flitted across the moonlight like ink strokes on paper—sharp, fleeting, precise. Then, without warning, he froze mid-perch, talons scraping concrete. His golden eyes narrowed into slits.
He creached, voice like gravel, pointing east with a casual flick of his wing.
Han Ji-a blinked. For a second, her face went blank—then her brows furrowed hard enough to cut stone.
"…Already? What do you mean you found her already? I've been combing every street, every alley for days. Nothing. And now you—" She cut herself off, jaw tightening, frustration slipping through her usually measured voice.
