Fight. Lose. Go to therapy.

FINISH HIM. Lou Kombat, bathed in the haphazard glow of a hundred cell phones, unfurls a scroll from his pocket. "Friends, allies, Brooklynites," he begins, his voice booming like a subway conductor. Sub-Zerith chuckles, "More like 'friends' till the receipts came out, right?" But Lou perseveres, "Gather 'round. Let me share a passage from my journal. It's called 'The Rooftop's Lament'." The crowd hushes, drawn in like reluctant apostles. "In the chill of this November night," Lou reads, "I stood above the city, not as a conqueror, but as a lost traveler in a world of steel and glass. I understood then that victory is not in the high score, but in the reflection we leave behind." The words hang in the air like a trigonometry equation, and the crowd, the city, the very rooftop, seem to pause, considering. Sub-Zerith, his smug grin slipping, can't help but interject, "Let me see that receipt, Lou. I bet it says 'over tai-chi-ing'!" But the city, the rooftop, they've already forgotten Sub-Zerith's words. They are too busy drinking in Lou's reflection, his echoing words becoming their shared story. And Sub-Zerith, the tactician, the planner, the pull-quote king, is left, drowning in the sudden realization that sometimes, a rooftop can echo a man's words... forever.