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The pounding in my head has a rhythm, a voice. Up, it says. Out. Up, Out, Up, Up, Up.

It was how I ended up on the roof of the Cullen Building the first time, and how I've ended up there again.

Sometimes if I do what the pounding wants, it lessens.

Delusional, the doctors say.

It's barely dark, and I'm technically still on the clock but Cheney left early to meet his mistress for dinner and isn't taking any calls. His wife thinks he's going out with colleagues.

It's so fucking cold, but the air is clearing my head and slowing the racing, nervous feeling in my blood.

I watch the city below me, rush hour traffic casting the street in red lights and creating a cacophony of horns. I've thought about moving to the country or something cliché like that but what would I even do there.

What do I even do here? My life is just...nothing. I work. I go to the library. I sleep. I don't have any friends. No family to tie me anywhere. No will to do anything.

I take a steadying breath, the headache is slowly dissipating and maybe I'll get some reading done tonight.

"You're not going to jump again, are you?" a voice says from behind me. "My back still hurts from the last time."

There's no feeling of surprise at seeing him here. Maybe I knew he'd be here all along.

"No, it obviously wasn't successful the first time. Live and learn, I guess. Ha. Live."

He stares at me, his eyes unnaturally bright in the growing darkness.

"That's fucked up," he says finally. "Really fucked up."

I shrug, avoiding his burning gaze, and trying to calm my racing heart. He's so close to me.

Not close enough, the pounding says. Quieter now, but insistent.

"So, what are you doing up here, then?" he asks.

"Nothing. Getting some air. Are you off to save the world?"

He scoffs, his expression hidden under his mask. As if on cue, his watch starts beeping. He glances at it, then at me.

"I have to go, but I'm worried you're going to end up a puddle on the sidewalk if I leave you up here."

"I already told you I wasn't going to jump." Why does he even care?

He hesitates, but nods before he pitches himself off the ledge, landing on the roof of the next building, and then the next.

I watch him until he disappears, vanishing into the night.

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I think Alice brings extra dinner to her shifts at the library on purpose, just so she can offer me some and then watch me eat. I'm devouring a taco bowl as she talks about this mean girl in her Lamaze class, leaning back in her swivel chair. We're in the staff area, though it's late enough that there isn't really anyone else there to complain about my presence.

She asks me a few questions about the books I'm reading, but mostly she talks and talks, which is what I prefer anyways. Alice has a good life. A loving husband, a baby on the way, a home. She has hobbies she enjoys and is, by all accounts, mentally stable. Sometimes I like to imagine that I'm Alice. It's a nice little daydream, but it feels false, like its not only something that I'll never have, but also something I don't think I really want.

It's completely dark out as I start my walk home and I might feel nervous if I wasn't so apathetic about the whole dying thing.

The Vigilante is by my side by the next block.

"This is a bad part of town," he tells me as if I didn't already know that. "You really don't have any regard for your safety."

"Nope," I say, popping the p. "Am I in danger? Is that why you're here?"

"Not in any immediate danger, I suppose," he admits.

"Then what are you doing?" My words come out harsher than I intend, and he slows his steps to a stop.

"I…" he trails off as if he has no idea how he ended up here. I wish he wasn't wearing that stupid mask.

"I guess I wanted to make sure you were okay. Confirm that you weren't, you know, dead," he says casually.

"Do you follow up like this with every person you've rescued?" My voice is almost teasing. Almost flirty. I take a step towards him.

He purses his lips, eyes narrowed.

"Is this how you thank people who help you?" he counters, continuing to walk again.

"I sent flowers to the doctor who pumped my stomach once," I joke. Technically the guidance counselor at school sent them to me, and I had to leave them in my room when I was sent to the psych ward.

"Jesus Christ," he hisses. "Why are you so insistent on dying?"

I don't answer him right away, unsure of what to say. How do I explain to this absolute stranger my entire personal history?

Not a stranger, that little voice says. I ignore it. I mostly ignore the Vigilante's question, too, and shrugging is my only response. It's my signature avoidance technique.

We don't speak again, but he walks with me all the way back to my apartment, standing near the street with his arms crossed until I get inside. When I turn back for one more look, he's gone.

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