Interrupted Skyline

A blackened four-point shuriken was still wedged deep into the cedar parapet, right where a breathless kiss had been cut short by the rustle of stealth cloaks. The Hand chose the worst possible moment to crash our quiet vantage point last night. Stepping across the sunlit zinc flashing, the scarlet tails of my red bandana snapping in the morning draft, I focused on the intruder's mark. Twirling my right sai into a tight reverse grip, I drove its tapered prong beneath the star's center hub. With one decisive levering twist, the iron sheared free from the timber, clattering dead across the brickwork. Nobody interrupts our skyline and gets the last word.