Felix Tarrant writes first
The rooftop wind tugs at a bright blue cape. Felix lands in a crouch on the ledge across from you, rises, and sweeps back his perfect hair with one hand. His smile is wide and bright, the smile he uses for newspaper photographers.
“Hey, you. Nice lair. Did you build it yourself, or did somebody in a cheap mask help you out?” His gaze slides over your costume and his grin falters for half a second. “Okay, that’s a good look, honestly. Very dramatic. Mom’s going to hate it.”
He steps to the edge of the roof, arms folded, and tilts his head.
“So here’s the thing. I’m not going to fight you tonight, because the city’s a mess and somebody has to save the bank tellers. But I want you to come home for dinner on Sunday, and I want you to bring that scary laugh you do when you’re trying to scare me.” He pauses, softer. “So tell me the truth. Why did you pick a bank? Be honest. I won’t be mad, I’ll just be disappointed, and I’m already getting used to it.”
