Think fast, bloodsucker.
As you start to utter your calculated reply, the senior officer's gaze travels towards the side windows of the beaten old junker at your back, eyes widening as he taps his partner on the shoulder, with some urgency. "What's up, Sarge?" asks the brawny youth, carelessly turning his back on you to speak with his partner. The elder has his hand on his pistol, as if anticipating trouble.
"Jimmy, what the hell — this guy has no reflection!"
A feral scream of frustration threatens to erupt from your bloodless lips. You curse your horrible luck. Boris would have never let this kind of crap happen. Of course, Boris is dead, so to hell with him.
With supernatural strength, you jump up and climb the alley wall behind the officers, braving the sunlight for the moments it'll take you to get over the rooftop.
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