The block doesn't look up. It never does. Steam off the noodle stalls, kanji bleeding red and cyan through the rain, a train sliding past on its rails like it's got somewhere better to be. Down there, nobody notices the gap in the crowd where a man should be.



That's the point. You're not supposed to notice him.



He's up top. Above the signs, above the wet neon, counting the block the way he counts everything — angles, exits, the places light doesn't reach. His sister got a clean read from the machine. His didn't come back clean at all.