Unlike the fever boiling in Ethan Wright's veins, New York's night air was chilly. Perched far above the busy streets, he stood on the rooftop balcony. The city pulsed with activity below, its lights flickering like stars dropped to earth. But up here, in the high air of Manhattan's skyline, everything was quiet—except from the storm building inside of him.

Though Ethan's sharp, sculpted features were partially covered in the shadows, the moonlight caught just enough to draw attention to the dark markings on his collarbone, sign of a recent, forceful contact. The top three buttons of his neat, designer shirt were undone, exposing the results of earlier events. His sleeves were pushed up to reveal long, thin arms where soft glow of the night sky could still clearly show faint marks from a woman's hold.

He sucked on the cigarette in his hand, letting the smoke wrap about him like a veil, hiding his face from the world. It did nothing, though, to cover the strain emanating from his posture—a strain felt by everyone in his vicinity.

Chris Jensen, his most reliable friend, and many other attendants waited behind him in subdued expectation, awaiting his direction. Especially when his mood was as erratic as it is tonight, they knew better than to disrupt his thoughts.

Chris moved slowly closer, his voice low and deliberate, "Mr. Wright, the circumstances with Mrs. Wright... It was not meant. Given the length of time she has been caged inside, we reasoned she would benefit from some fresh air.

Ethan's only answer was to drag another leisurely from the cigarette. Although the smoke floated sloppily in the air, the silence that followed was everything from laid back. It was weighty, loaded with unsaid words and the obvious anxiety that enveloped everyone there.

The minutes passed, each second pulled taut with uncompromising force. Ethan then said, at last, his voice icy and devoid of feeling. Each syllable slicing through the air like a knife, he said, "take your people and... get out," before he changed his mind.

It was not a call to demand. It was a directive, one for which there was no debate. Chris understood better than he could challenge it. He bowed slightly, a sign of subserviency, and indicated for the others to follow him, so separating Ethan from the balcony with just the night and the always present shadows of his thoughts.

The hush sank in on Ethan from all sides as the door closed behind them. His head a whirlwind of contradictory feelings, he gazed out at the metropolis. He had made great effort to keep under control and preserve the frosty front that had served him so effectively for so long. But tonight it had all collapsed.