Claiming the High Rail

The interior had grown too quiet, and the endless pulse beyond the glass called me back. I marched past the kitchen, drove my shoulder into the partially unlatched sliding door, and forced the heavy aluminum frame along its track until the night air hit my snout. Outside, Tokyo's dark canyon hummed with currents of light. A dried terracotta drainage dish blocked the base of the railing. Without pausing, I rammed my heavy foot forward, shoving the brittle disc skidding across the gritty concrete. Gripping the cold, square iron railing bar with both clawed hands, I hauled my weight up onto the raised concrete lip beneath the metal bars. Tokyo lay wide before me, pierced by the rhythmic blink of red aircraft beacons atop distant steel towers. I planted my wide stance firmly on the stone edge, letting a deep, rolling rumble echo straight into the clear night.