"Executing a fucking plan," he says with airy exasperation, fastening the grapple over the lip of the building's edge with the satisfying click and rattle of locking bolts shooting into place. "Hold the fuck on, will you."

Without any further warning, he readjusts his grip around the man's midriff and drops over the edge. The line takes them down the sheer drop, wind tearing through his hair and catching at his jacket, the cuffs of each sleeve. He squints against the inevitable shift in pressure, against the stabbing pain of staring into the churning buildup of wind resistance.

For a moment, there is only the vertical streaks of lights blurring into obscurity and the hum of the line paying out.

Then their trajectory catches and slows, and Nicholas swings one foot to plant it against the side of building from which they fell, sliding them to halt something like five feet above the asphalt of the road below.

"This," he says calmly, "would be your stop."