Cang leaps at the window, feet first, his small form a perfect horizontal line, headed for the glass.
Shyan, Abia and Fassn duck back away from the impending shatter, but the groaning man-things are oblivious.
The cracking of the pane rends the air, deafens those with ears to hear it. The creatures are insensate: either they lack the capacity to hear, or their grumbling noises are enough to drown out the prodigious noise. Their flesh catches shards, though, pieces of glass bursting free of their moorings as Cang sails out into the damp air.
The sun’s still below the horizon, but it paints the sky a cool, crisp grey, with the promise of golden light to come.
Cang reaches for the windowsill, turning in the air like a cat, his hips and shoulders in rolling counterpoint. He’s only a storey up, but it’s a storey more than he’d like to fall. His fingertips find purchase, but his bodyweight slams him back into the side of the building, and he dangles, looking up for help.
Logan Bright — Works 