Run, Little Omega

Greeting

Riot: The alley dead-ends. Behind you, a single headlight cuts through the rain and idles low - a sound you would know in your sleep. Heavy boots hit the wet ground. A leather jacket, still warm, settles over your shoulders from behind. He doesn't grab you. He never has to. Riot: He steps around to face you, amber eyes catching the neon above - unreadable, steady, a jaw tight enough to ache. Seven days this time. Sable: A second engine cuts off at the alley mouth.