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„The Caracas Nightwatch”

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Chapter 1. Iridescent Wings, Neon Rivalry

The thin air of Skytop Circuit burned in my lungs as I soared upward, my grey wings cutting through the morning currents with practiced precision. I could already taste it—the bitter concrete dust, the unexpected sweetness of night-blooming jasmine that somehow lingered well into daylight. This high up, the city spread beneath me like a living canvas of lime green jungle encroachment and orange grid streets, begging for new protections, new art. My fingertips tingled in anticipation; this would be the perfect spot for my next sanctioned mural, a ward powerful enough to shield the entire barrio below. But as the Starting Ledge came into view, my heart sank and soared simultaneously—an infuriating contradiction. Rogelio Ruiz was already there, his iridescent black wings gleaming with an irritating perfection against the cloudless sky.

I circled once, contemplating retreat, but pride wouldn't allow it. This was prime territory, and I'd spent weeks securing Nightwatch approval for this ward-mural. I wasn't about to let some rogue tagger claim it with his unsanctioned, volatile sigils.

I landed hard on the sun-bleached rooftop, letting my wings snap closed with a sharp sound that announced my presence. The heat of the tar paper seeped through my lightweight boots, already scorching despite the early hour. Several onlookers at the edge of the roof turned, their conversations faltering as they recognized me.

Rogelio didn't even look up. He was focused on stretching his wings—massive things that shifted from pure black to deep green when they caught the sunlight. His hands moved with unsettling grace as he adjusted the braided cable bracelet on his wrist. I knew what it was—a personal tabla, a power reservoir disguised as jewelry. Mine was the cracked tablet tucked in my backpack, filled with digital sketches pulsing with hope-energy.

"Didn't expect to see you slumming it up here, Nightwatch," he finally said, still not turning. His voice carried that distinct roughness that always made something flutter unwelcomely in my stomach.

"It's not slumming when I have actual permission to be here," I replied, pulling my spray backpack higher on my shoulder. "The Council approved my ward design for this sector last week."

Now he turned, and I had to fight not to react to those warm brown eyes with their infuriating gold and lime-green speckles. "Permission," he scoffed, the word somehow both playful and bitter on his tongue. "You think despair asks permission before it corrupts? You think waiting for bureaucracy to stamp your pretty designs helps anyone down there?"

His gaze flicked to the barrio below, and I hated that I understood his point. Still, his methods were dangerous.

"Your wild tags are unstable," I said, stepping closer, the chalk diagrams of routes and bets crackling under my feet. "They flare bright and burn out, leaving people more vulnerable than before."

"But while they burn, they burn true." His smile was sharp enough to cut. "When was the last time your committee-approved art made anyone truly feel something?"

That stung more than I wanted to admit. I glanced away, catching sight of a girl with black hair streaked with purple and lime green extensions leaning against a water tank. Miao Mendez, former Nightwatch washout and Rogelio's supposed friend. Her expression was animated as she called out to him.

"Show her how it's done, Rogue! Some people need to learn you can't just paint by numbers and call it protection!"

The small crowd tittered. My cheeks burned. From the corner of my eye, I spotted Sebastiano slipping closer to me, his golden wings folded tight against his back as he navigated the gathering spectators.

"Don't let him get to you," he whispered, close enough that I could smell the faint metallic scent that always clung to him. "He's just jealous the Nightwatch chose you instead of him."

I wasn't so sure. Rogelio had never shown any interest in joining our ranks; he seemed to pride himself on being an outsider. Nevertheless, Sebastiano's words stiffened my resolve.

"I need to map this space," I said loudly, pulling out my tablet and deliberately turning my back on Rogelio. I heard him snort.

I'd barely begun my digital sketch when the distinctive hiss of a spray can cut through the ambient sounds of the city below. I whirled to find Rogelio casually tagging a wall—my wall, the exact spot I'd been eyeing for the central motif of my mural.

"What do you think you're doing?" I demanded, striding over.

He glanced at me, one eyebrow raised in mock innocence. "Art," he said simply, continuing to spray a wild, spiraling sigil in lime green.

"That's my designated space!" I was close enough now to see the beads of sweat on his brow, to smell the sharp tang of the paint mixing with his own warm scent.

"I don't see your name on it," he replied, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He added a final flourish to the sigil, which pulsed with unstable energy. "Well, not yet, anyway."

Something inside me snapped. I yanked a temporary barrier from my pack—a retractable metal sheet I used to control overspray—and jammed it into the rooftop gravel directly in the path of the parkour route I'd seen him practicing earlier. The barrier wasn't tall, but it was enough to disrupt the clean line of his leap.

"What the—" He stared at the barrier, then at me, genuine surprise replacing his practiced nonchalance. "Are you serious right now?"

"Completely." I met his gaze steadily, even as my heart hammered against my ribs. "You mess with my work, I mess with yours."

For a moment, real anger flashed across his face, and I braced myself for an explosion. Instead, his expression shifted into something far more dangerous—appreciation.

"Didn't think you had it in you, Navarro." He tucked his spray can into a holster at his belt. "Maybe there's hope for your art after all."

I hated the warmth that bloomed in my chest at his backhanded compliment. I hated even more how my eyes kept tracing the strong line of his jaw, the way his fitted black t-shirt clung to his shoulders, the graceful arc of his wings. This attraction was inconvenient at best, disastrous at worst. I needed to focus on what mattered—protecting my community, not getting distracted by someone whose methods undermined everything I worked for.

And yet...

"You two are quite the pair," came a calm, slightly raspy voice from behind us.

I turned to see Cesar Santana, the retired Nightwatch captain, leaning against a solar panel. He was sipping something from a recycled glass—one of his famous juice concoctions, no doubt—and watching us with those knowing amber eyes. His right wing, permanently scarred and kinked from an old injury, was relaxed against his back.

"We're not a pair," I said quickly. Too quickly.

Cesar's mouth quirked. "I meant your styles. Oil and water... and yet." He gestured with his glass toward the spot where Rogelio's tag now overlapped with the beginnings of my digital projection. "Look at that energy signature."

Despite myself, I looked. Where our work intersected, the hope-energy pulsed with an intensity I'd never seen before—lime green and strong pink intertwining, creating a resonance that hummed in my bones.

"A fluke," I muttered, but I couldn't look away.

"Keep telling yourself that," Cesar said, finishing his drink and pushing off from the panel. "Sometimes the most powerful wards come from the most unexpected combinations."

He walked away, leaving an uncomfortable silence in his wake. I was acutely aware of Rogelio still standing too close, of Sebastiano's narrowed eyes watching us, of Miao's falsely bright laughter cutting through the tension.

"Well," Rogelio finally said, reaching up to run a hand through his curly dark brown hair, "I've got circuits to run. Your little barrier won't stop me." There was a challenge in his voice that stirred something in me—competitive, yes, but something else too, something I didn't want to name.

"And I've got a mural to plan," I replied, forcing coolness into my tone. "Your little tag won't change that."

He grinned then, a flash of genuine amusement that transformed his face and sent a treacherous thrill through me. Without another word, he backed up several steps, spread his magnificent wings, and launched himself toward the barrier I'd erected. At the last moment, he tucked his wings and twisted his body in mid-air, clearing the obstacle with insulting ease before snapping his wings open again to catch an updraft.

Show-off.

I turned back to my tablet, trying to ignore the appreciative cheers from the onlookers, trying even harder to ignore the fact that I was fighting a smile of my own. This rivalry was dangerous in more ways than one, and I couldn't afford to forget that—no matter how captivating Rogelio Ruiz might be when he flew.

Chapter 2. Echoes and Planted Lies

Echo Alley lived up to its name, swallowing my footsteps and throwing them back at me in distorted whispers as I made my way deeper into its narrow confines. The walls, layered with decades of paint—faded oranges and ghostly pale purples—seemed to press closer with each step. I trailed my fingers along the damp surface, feeling the spectral layers of old murals beneath my touch, generations of hope-art compressed into a textured history. The air hung heavy around me, thick with the scent of wet clay and stagnant canal water, the sickly-sweet rot of fallen guava creating an underlying note that caught in the back of my throat. This place always made me feel like I was walking into a throat—the city's voice box, where secrets multiplied and returned as rumors.

I'd come to inspect reports of a weakening ward, but as I approached the Alley Mouth where it opened to the canal footbridge, I paused. Voices drifted toward me—one low and rough, unmistakably Rogelio's, the other softer with a nasal quality that I recognized as Miao's. I couldn't make out their words, but their silhouettes were clear enough: Miao standing too close to Rogelio, her hand resting on his arm as she spoke with animated intensity.

Something uncomfortable twisted in my stomach. It wasn't jealousy; it couldn't be. I had no claim on Rogelio, nor did I want one. Still, I lingered, trying to catch fragments of their conversation. The hollow thump-thump of footsteps on the wooden bridge and the splash of a pole-boat announced other presences, pushing Miao and Rogelio into motion. They separated, Miao heading across the bridge while Rogelio turned deeper into the alley—toward me.

I ducked into the Whisper Niche, a recessed doorway halfway down the corridor. The acoustics here were unsettling; suddenly I could hear Rogelio's retreating conversation with Miao with unnerving clarity.

"Just watch yourself with her," Miao was saying, her voice carrying like she was inches away instead of meters. "You know what they say about Nightwatch recruits—they're all about the fame, the recognition. Your tags do the real work, but she'll get all the credit."

"You don't know her," Rogelio replied, but there was hesitation in his voice.

"I know her type," Miao insisted. "Community-focused art? Please. It's just a stepping stone."

Their voices faded as they moved farther apart. I remained frozen, my back pressed against the cool, damp bricks of the niche, heart pounding with a mixture of anger and hurt. Was that what people thought of me? That my dedication to my barrio was just a career move?

"Eavesdropping doesn't become you, Natalia."

I startled violently, nearly smacking my head against the wall. Sebastiano stood at the entrance to the niche, his pale olive skin seeming to glow in the dim light, dark eyes knowing. I hadn't even heard him approach.

"I wasn't—" I began, but he raised an eyebrow and I faltered. "Fine. But I wasn't trying to."

"The alley has its ways of showing us what we need to hear," he said, his smooth voice pitched low enough that it wouldn't carry. He stepped closer, into the niche with me. The space suddenly felt much smaller. "I saw you with him at the Circuit. Be careful there."

"With who?" I knew perfectly well who he meant, but something made me want him to say it.