The rooftop air thrummed with the distant clamor of the invasion—shrieks of those chitinous forms slicing through the evening haze, punctuated by the sharper war cry and supernatural booms of human defiance below.
Yet Noirette's attention fixed on the figure emerging from the shadows at the far side of the roof, his silhouette cutting a precise line against the sodium glow of the city lights.
He moved with the unhurried certainty of someone accustomed to command, his business suit tailored sharp enough to slice the wind, as the fabric unmarred by the chaos unfolding mere blocks away.
A black steel mask concealed his features, its surface etched with faint circuits that pulsed dimly, like veins carrying some hidden current. The mask's lenses gleamed opaque.
"What is the reasoning for such a demand?" Noirette replied to the man's earlier statement.
The masked man paused, his head tilting fractionally as if recalibrating his assessment.
