The air was not sharply winter but an easy breath over rooftops turbulent. Silent dull lights. Like flickering candle, a convoy of police cars detour and chase, murmuring a siren. Before it tired, the engine of a sports car flashy with age, sputtered. People were not so amused. Pushing its sea; he fuelled a soon to be stampede. Beyond the surging of the mass, (morally at least) my companion slipped into a run against the slow crowed runway for the mean. cantankerously the lift in our alley hauled them up. Shimmering, the full lining burnished tawny brown flashed in wind constantly soft.

The wind picked up, tousling our odd hair and the burnished tawny brown coat my companion wore. "This coat Is.

Amazing, no?" I said, admiring the way.

it shimmered in the dim light breathless. "Where did you get it?"

My companion smirked. "Trade secret. But do we say it's not the coat that makes us powerful."

I nodded, knowing what he meant. We shared a connection that was beyond mere clothing or accessories. It was a

power that came from

within, a power that we both possessed and used for our own gain.

As we stood on the rooftop, looking out at the turbulent skyline, my companion turned to me. "You know what they say, 'the higher the rooftop,

the deeper the secrets, how coy"

I chuckled, knowing that we had more secrets than most people have.

Imagined that set of days we recall. "Indeed. And our secrets are.

what give us our power."

My companion smiled wryly. "Power is all about perception. And we control how masses perceive us."

I nodded, understanding that our power was not something that could be measured or quantified. It was something.

that we simply exuded, like

an aura that surrounded us.

As we stood there in silence, the wind whipping around us, my companion spoke again. "People always think that.

power comes from money or

status. But it's really about confidence and influence. And whom I confide in."

I nodded, knowing that state of thinking was right. Our power came from our ability to influence others, to make them see things our way. The sirens below grew louder, and we both turned to look down at the police cars below. "Looks like he's getting. closer," I said, feeling a thrill of excitement at the thought of the chase. My companion smirked. "Let them come. We have the power to handle anything they throw at us." And with that, we stood tall on the rooftop, our mist of whim and sight radiating out into the turbulent night air. And then it hit me, the sublime and imperfect were only what life could throw at us and not the other way around. A brave newspaper from a gust of wind at this height was a spectacle glanced over for a mere change of weather in the same vicinity. It stated to me my ignorance in nature and the will of winds so high, I rebalanced myself on the rooftop and read the inscription of printer-blood. "The grave of the famed local baker known for his arts was robbed of some matter…A terracotta stag..." I trailed off into the depths of my mind from the lengthy-nailed coffin he deserved for the perseverance of such a sad rest. I turned to my companion their face shocked slightly frozen in MY moment of discovery he had not yet laid eyes upon, "We must cry out to see what has been going on, this is nothing of fashion to the streets, this happens, but, but nothing changes, so something must have changed for it to go so under the radar and be called just a robbery of some creature from this city." Said my companion who read my face, as others, so well he knew how much the inexplicable dullness of the article came to me. "We must make our way down." I complimented the use of the fire escapes of this grimy city and hurried down them without a second to lose; coat flapping in the- "Wait. If this does not make sense we must not do as others in such a scenario, we must wait and head, walking as the athlete does to their stand, slyly but with tremendous outcome in the form of the sheer mindset of letting your legs carry you, intentions carry you." Your intentions carry you. We fled on foot to the famed bakery titled "the stag terracotta."