Three taps. Sharp. Measured. Not wind or tree or dumbass bird.
Naturally, I figured window. I live alone, top floor, so either it was a drunk pigeon or a ghost with bad GPS. But when I turned my head toward the window—nothing. No breeze. No branches. Just the city yawning in the dark.
[SCENE: Outside an apartment complex. 1:37 AM. Headlights still on. She storms out of the car, slamming the door. He follows, stumbling, drunk but smirking like it’s all still a joke.]
SHE (Lyra)
You almost killed us back there. You laughed. What the fuck is wrong with you?
HE (Rafa)
Relax. I’ve driven drunk a hundred times. You’re the one making it a big deal.
"That old lady always wears a red scarflette around her wrist," muttered Lennox—now going by Left Eye until the swelling goes down. "Today, we found out why."
"Turns out she can grand-slap a silly bastard into a new zodiac sign," said Max, nursing his jaw like it owed him money. "With a fuckin’ purse, Lennox. A purse."
“She’s a gang, Max! A gang! Did you see them?! All coordinated like synchroni...