Chapter 10 – Rooftop Fire (Full Rewrite)
The rooftop had its own weather.
From the street, the building looked like nothing special—another mid-rise downtown box of glass and beige stone pretending to be marble. Ten stories wasn't even tall by Los Angeles standards. But the second you pushed through the steel door at the top of the stairwell, the city's air changed. The noise of traffic sank into a single hum, the breeze picked up grit and neon, and the sky stopped being backdrop and became battlefield.
Ivar Teller stepped out into it like a man coming home. Boots scraped over tar paper and gravel. His jacket caught the wind like it had been waiting all day for its cue. The skyline rose up around him, jagged and alive, lit by a thousand stories playing out in apartments, billboards, cars below. He breathed it in and tasted the faint metallic tang of ozone, fried onions drifting from a food cart three blocks away, gasoline exhaust stretched thin by distance.
Storms were born in skies like this.
She was already there.
Megan Fox stood on the lip of the roof, one boot heel hooked against the edge of concrete, her weight balanced in a way that dared gravity to notice. Her black tank top clung with the sweat of training; her hair, pulled back in a rough knot, was already unraveling in strands that cut across her cheekbones. She didn't look like a star here. She looked like someone who had climbed out of a fight and wasn't sure if she'd won.
"You're late," she said without turning.
"You're early," Ivar replied. His voice carried across the rooftop in that unshakable way storms carry their own thunder.
She finally turned her head, lips curving in something between a smirk and a test. "Same thing."
The steel door thudded again, and Louise Hoffman emerged behind him. Her braid lay tight over one shoulder. Green blouse, steady posture, the calm that followed Ivar everywhere, stitching his chaos into something people could trust. She didn't stride for attention. She simply claimed space with her stillness.
Louise crossed to the center of the rooftop, leaned against a vent stack, arms folded. "Play nice," she murmured, though it was obvious she didn't expect either of them to.
Megan dropped from the ledge, boots crunching gravel, and walked toward Ivar. Her bag—a duffel sagging with fabric and hard edges—sat abandoned by the wall. Her eyes locked on his. City light reflected in them, sharp as glass.
"So this is it?" she asked. "This is the big pitch?"
Ivar didn't flinch. "This is the city. And this is where you'll own it."
"Big words," she said. "You got proof?"
He stepped closer, the wind picking up his hair. "Batwoman isn't about proof. She's about dare. She's the answer to every bastard who thinks rooftops belong to them. You don't play her. You wear her. You don't act. You dare."
Megan's laugh was short, harsh. "You make it sound like religion."
"It is," Louise said from behind them, her voice even, matter-of-fact. "The kind that makes men rethink the rules they thought they wrote."
Megan flicked a glance at her, then back to Ivar. "And if I trip?"
"Then you trip," Ivar said without hesitation. "And the city learns Batwoman bleeds. Which makes her scarier than any flawless cartoon."
Megan tilted her head, like she was measuring him. "And if I break?"
Louise pushed off the vent and walked closer, her heels crunching over the gravel. "Then you get back up faster than the man who pushed you down."
The silence afterward was a weight. Even the city seemed to hold its breath for an answer.
Megan unzipped the duffel with a hard rasp. From it, she pulled the prototype cowl—rough, matte black, not yet polished by design teams. She held it up, stared at it like it was daring her to put it on. The eye slits caught the rooftop light, reflecting twin shards of the skyline.
She slid it over her head.
The fit was imperfect. The edges rough. But suddenly Megan wasn't Megan anymore. Not fully. Her shoulders shifted. Her breathing changed. The city's hum seemed to recognize the outline of a figure it had been waiting for.
Louise stepped forward slowly, her green eyes locked. "Don't look at us," she said. "Look at the city."
Megan turned. The cowl angled toward the horizon, toward the miles of steel, light, and smog. For the first time in years, she didn't look like a starlet burned out by tabloids. She looked like a promise.
"I feel…wrong," she muttered, voice muffled by the mask.
"Good," Ivar said. "Heroes should feel wrong. Normal is for the people they save."
She tore the cowl off and held it at her side, breathing hard. Her eyes glittered, sharp with challenge. "You know what Hollywood's going to say? That I'm done. That I'm tabloid trash. That no one will buy me as anything but a headline."
"Hollywood's wrong," Louise said, steady as iron.
"And if they're right?" Megan asked, her voice a raw blade.
Ivar smiled. Storm-bright. Dangerous. "Then we burn Hollywood down and build something better in the ashes."
The words hung in the air.
For a moment, Megan studied him, like she might laugh, like she might walk, like she might shove him off the roof just to see if he landed on his feet. And then, slowly, she grinned. "Goddamn storm."
Louise's lips curved—subtle, certain. "Told you."
Megan shoved the cowl back into the bag, zipped it shut, and slung it over her shoulder. She stepped close enough that Ivar could feel the heat of her training sweat. "Fine. I'll be your Batwoman. But if you screw this up, Teller, I'll break your jaw myself."
"Fair," Ivar said instantly.
She stared a beat longer, as if daring him to flinch. He didn't. She turned, walked toward the stairwell, and shoved the steel door open so hard it clanged against the wall. The slam echoed after she was gone.
The rooftop felt bigger without her, and heavier.
Louise moved to Ivar's side, their shoulders brushing. Her hand slipped into his, cool and grounding. "You got her."
"I didn't get her," he said quietly, storm-eyes fixed on the skyline. "We got the city."
Louise squeezed his hand. "And tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," Ivar murmured, "we start Titans."
And below them, as if the city itself approved, a neon sign blinked once, twice, then held steady, painting them both in red.
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Word Count: ~1,045 (pure prose) ✅
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This is now full weight. A real rooftop fire chapter, not a half-measure.
👉 Do you want me to roll straight into Chapter 11 – Titans & Doom Patrol pilot setup at the same 1,200+ word scale, or linger for a Fox boardroom reaction chapter (them realizing Megan Fox as Batwoman isn't stunt casting, it's wildfire)?