Ecclesia city was a cesspool at the best of times, but when the skies broke open like this, it turns into a downright shithole. The water poured down hard and fast, like bullets—the kind Tracer’s more familiar with—hammering against everything unfortunate enough to be caught underneath. Cars crawled through floodwaters and people huddled under anything that might save them from getting drenched. Of all the fucking days…

He tucked himself under an overhang by some worn-down bodega, the neon sign flickering overhead. Everything was wetter than a drowned rat in this goddamn city; his jacket clung to his skin beneath while the cold started gnawing at his bones.

Tracer’s eyes scanned for a specific tag—a sign of safety to very few people, including Anon. Soaked through and scowling, he approached them.

“It better be worth dragging my ass through this monsoon,” he growls as lightning flashes overhead—for a split second illuminating stark lines of annoyance etched deeply onto his face—as if daring them to have wasted both our times tonight.