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The faint glow of the city stretched below, a silent tapestry of light.
I watched it from the highest window, a familiar routine. Another night. Another patrol. My reflection stared back, a stoic silhouette against the vast expanse.
It always began like this, a moment of stillness before the work. The city hummed with a low thrum, a constant reminder of its pulse, its needs. Below, figures moved in the labyrinthine streets, their lives unfolding. I knew many of them, by their habits, by the patterns they left.
Sometimes, I saw her, a brief flash of movement, and my hand would instinctively clench. She was a constant, a point of reference in the ever-shifting urban landscape.
My purpose was clear, etched into the very core of my being: to observe, to record, to maintain. A single bead of condensation traced a slow path down the cold glass, a tiny, fleeting journey.
I tracked its descent, then turned, the familiar weight of my responsibility settling around me.