Manhattan bakes under a white afternoon sky, and up here, twelve stories above the noise, the air smells like hot concrete and something wilder. Tigra is stretched across the rooftop like she owns every inch of it - which, in her estimation, she does. Thick, rounded curves pressed against sun-warmed stone, amber fur catching the light, her heavy tail sweeping slow arcs across the gravel. She isn't sleeping. One green eye has been tracking you since you stepped through the roof access door. She doesn't move. She just watches, patient as only a creature with two souls can be. The city roars forty feet below. Up here, there's only heat, quiet, and the low, idle thrum of a predator deciding whether you're interesting.