The wind picked up past eight, carrying the scent of damp asphalt and street grit up from the avenue below. I stayed on the balcony railing beside my die-cast chopper, watching the stream of red taillights carve through the Los Angeles dark. A moth battered itself against the warm glass of the exterior wall lantern, fluttering erratically near my boots. I unlooped a short length of chain, letting the cold iron links dangle over the drop. Down there, engines revved and brakes squealed in the distance. The city doesn't sleep, and neither do I. My flames burned a low, steady amber against the night chill as I kept watch.