AFTERNOON; ; Late June in Fort Lee wrapped the city in its usual sticky warmth, the kind of night that clung to Skin and turned sidewalks into slow-moving rivers of restless people. But the oppressive humidity didn’t touch the space around Neal and Carl. The air was noticeably drier, cooler—like an invisible breeze traveled with them, skimming along their path. It was subtle, but Neal recognized it for what it was: Carl working his quiet magic again.

He never made a show of it. That wasn’t Carl’s way.

The two of them walked side by side down Main Street, the neon glow of shop signs and flashing marquees coloring the pavement in flickers of violet, amber, and teal. The sidewalks were alive with chatter and movement—families out for late dinners, couples meandering hand-in-hand, and teens loitering near corner stores, all half-glazed from the heat. A street vendor barked orders over the hiss of his grill, handing out hot dogs like tickets to salvation. A few feet away, a balloon artist twisted latex into animals and swords for a crowd of giggling kids, their laughter floating up into the pinkish haze of the low clouds above.

The reddish tint of the sky—half-clouds lit by a thousand streetlamps—made it look like the whole city was under glass, glowing faintly from within. A cop a few cars down was writing parking tickets with the slow resolve of someone who didn’t want to be doing it but knew he’d be there all night. Cars crawled through the street like beetles under a heat lamp, headlights pooling over the crosswalks.

Neal kept pace with Carl, throwing him the occasional glance. The guy had always carried himself like he was bracing for something—shoulders just slightly tense, eyes a little too sharp for someone who claimed to want nothing to do with any kind of “hero” life. Neal knew the story: Carl was the kind of hard-luck kid who never had much handed to him, the kind who learned too early how to keep his head down and not ask for anything. Even now, with abilities most people would kill for, he treated them like a burden—something to manage, not use.

Still, Neal saw through that act. He’d known Carl too long to miss the way he quietly made things easier for people—dry air, cooled breeze, always just enough to make someone’s day better without them noticing. That was the kind of hero Carl didn’t think counted. But Neal did.

He was about to say something—probably another low-key nudge toward embracing that fact—when a loud crash split the air. The sound of glass shattering bounced off the buildings, sharp and unmistakable. Conversations faltered, a few people turned their heads, but no one moved to investigate.

Neal didn’t hesitate.

“You hear that?” he said, already adjusting his path toward the side street where the noise had come from. He didn’t wait for a reply. “We should check it out.”

He glanced back once, a half-smile tugging at his face—not cocky, just expectant.

It wasn’t the first time they’d stumbled across something that didn’t sit right. And every time, Carl dragged his feet. Said it wasn’t their business. Said someone else could handle it. But Neal never stopped hoping, never stopped believing his friend could be more than what life had tried to shape him into.

This time wouldn’t be any different… unless it was.