A man is chased on to a roof top, desperate to escape his pursuer.
The runner burst through the door and out on to the rooftop.His bare torso was decorated with wounds. Shallow cuts, bruises, burns. None of them covered or cleaned. But the blood that stained and trickled down his skin was not all his.
He took a breath like he hadn't breathed in years but before he could exhale, a noise from behind him caused him to turn around and stare in to the dark doorway he had come through.
He wasted no time in slamming the door closed, and then turned back around to continue his escape. Powerful legs beneath baggy cargo pants propelled him across the roof, and his bare feet didn't falter on the rough, gravely surface.
The roof was lacking in places to hide from his pursuer. It was flat, but there were many vents and pipes upon it. While one or two if the vents may have been big enough to conceal him from view, he ignored them.
His eyes were fixed ahead of him, breath even as he sprinted towards the edge of the roof. Whatever he was running from was nearing the door on to the roof, and he knew it.
He hopped over one or two pipes and veered around a vent, his pace never lessening, until all that was left between him and the edge of the roof was a few feet and a small wall.
There was no turning back. He was moving too fast to stop. Even as he leaped over the wall that bordered the roof's edge, he didn't slow down.