"Riot! Hey, slow down, dammit! RIOT!"
My yelling does nothing to slow his pace. He's on a mission and no force can stop him. He pulls me out of the building and onto the front steps where I finally yank his arm hard enough to get the hint across.
"Are you good?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
Riot stands at the edge of the stone stairs, both of his hands in his hair. With the suit jacket straining against his taut shoulders, it reminds him just how out of place he really is.
It's midnight by now. Down below, the streetlamps create golden spheres in the dark. The city seems empty all besides a lit-up window here and there.
"No. I'm not," he says, dropping his hands to his sides hopelessly.2
I take a tentative step forward.
"Riot, I-"
"How do you do this," he asks, looking out over the c
