To her surprise, even on the darkest days she was learning. Her mind, traumatised as it may be, was still attuned to acquiring knowledge—to filing and sorting and processing, to speculating and hypothesising and concluding.

It was the force of habit, she realised, as she stood behind the glass wall of her prison and watched another hazy twilight consume the city. The ingrained result of years of study, combined with the questioning nature that had challenged her lecturers and driven more than one of her teachers to distraction, never mind her parents.

Only it was no longer the dry contents of dusty textbooks she absorbed—not the staid, measured facts and figures of academia. This new knowledge was a far more raw kind.

The surprising realisation boredom and terror could co-exist. The recognition evil was not an abstract concept but an everyday presence. The hard-won understanding that rage and desperation were no defence against brute strength and malice.

But buried among these dull, lustreless truths, carried along on this dark tide of disturbing discoveries, she had found one shining jewel of comprehension. One undeniable fact which, despite the cost, she was savagely glad to have uncovered.

The realisation that within her small body there lay far deeper reserves of resistance—of resilience—than she had ever dared hope she might find.

The top floor, with its executive suites and corporate boardrooms, was only a brief ride up, for which Nick was glad. He didn't want time to think about what he was doing or where he was going. Right now, autopilot suited him just fine.

Exiting the lift, he found the door to the stairwell a few paces down the plushly carpeted corridor, and from there it was only a couple of short flights to the rooftop.

The city air could hardly be called fresh, but he drew deep breaths anyway, relishing the sensation of the open sky above him—he even imagined he could see a star or two. Putting down his half-empty box, he made his way to the front edge of the building, and after a moment's hesitation, clambered over and sat on the shallow ledge that was all that stood between him and the abyss. Legs dangling, chin in hand, he gazed out at the vast sea of light and shadow that was San Diego by night, stretching away to the edge of his vision and beyond.

There was beauty there. Even knowing just how much the darkness hid, he still found the cityscape captivating. There was a grandeur to the unruly ranks of man-made mountains marching to the horizon, mystery in the shadows of the yawning chasms that lay between, and a soft allure to the hazy glow that overlaid it all.

It was beautiful. Dark, bruised, frayed at the edges, but beautiful. And so very, very unlike his hometown. Bigger. Busier. Brasher. And utterly indifferent to the fate of one Mr Nicholas Devine, fresh from the outer limits of Bumfuck, Idaho.

"Excuse me?"

Nick whirled to find the source of the voice—a grey-haired woman, standing by the door to the stairs. She gave him a tentative smile.

"I'm sorry to bother you. I was cleaning downstairs when I saw you come up here, and I just wanted to check...to check if everything is alright?"

He swallowed. Conversation and company were the very last things he wanted. Everything was far from alright and having to explain why was not about to make things any better. He needed this woman to leave, and he needed it to happen in as few words as possible.

He managed a brittle smile. "Fine, thanks. Just g-g-getting some air."

She did not seem convinced. "You're quite sure? You don't need any help? Perhaps you might like to come away from the edge. There's plenty of air over here."

Despite his desire to be alone, he couldn't help but be moved by her concern—by her kindness. This woman he didn't know, whom he might have walked past without the slightest recognition any number of times over the last few months, this stranger working late at night in her minimum-wage job, had taken the time and effort to climb multiple flights of stairs on no-doubt weary legs to check on the welfare of a stranger, for no other reason than he looked like he might need help. While the city might be indifferent, at least one of its residents was not.

"Thank you very much," he wished he could say. "Thank you for reminding me people can be good and the world is not a complete shit-show, and this place is not all Jaydens and other assorted assholes. Thank you for caring—it means more than you could know. But with all due respect, I'm kind of having an existential crisis here, and given my problems are probably way above your paygrade, I think maybe the best thing for both of us would be if you just turned around and walked away. I mean it, though—thank you."

But if he could say all that, he wouldn't be unemployed, distraught and sitting on the edge of a skyscraper. So, just as he had done countless times before in his young life, and hating himself for it more than ever, he turned away—and said nothing. As hard as that was, it was the less painful alternative. And the one more likely to achieve his need for solitude.

"Well, alright then." Her voice was uncertain. "I'll leave you to your thoughts. Please be careful, dear." There were a few seconds of silence before he heard the door close.

Blinking to clear his vision, he turned back to the city. The city where his co-workers, his colleagues—despite his initial fumbling overtures, long since abandoned, there were none he could call friends—were no doubt drinking and dating and living their lives and doing all those things he assumed young urban professionals did in their spare time. All the things he'd thought—hoped—he'd do, when he moved to San Diego, full of ambition and wishes and dreams and above all else, the desire to change; the determination to become someone other than the person he'd been for the twenty-four years of his life so far.

Only, it hadn't proven quite that easy. As it turned out, a new job, a new home—a new life, did not magically result in a new Nick. He'd packed light for the big move but wound up with unwanted baggage anyway. The awkwardness had come along. The shyness had hitched a ride. The uncertainty, the self-doubt and the anxiety, they'd all squeezed themselves in too.

And so, of course, had the ringleader of that sorry crew. Their conductor. Hell, their captain, their coach and their creator. The architect of the crumbling ruin that was his life. Try as he might, there was no leaving that bastard behind.

Leaning over the edge of the building, he watched the tiny cars making their tiny way along the street far below, carrying their tiny passengers to the next destination in their tiny, little lives.

That was all he'd aspired to, really—a tiny, little life. All he'd wanted was the chance to make his way in the world, to see some of it, and maybe have a few laughs and find some love along the way. Not for him fortune or fame, the high profile or the spotlight. Never the spotlight.

A buzz from his phone interrupted his ruminations.

Hey, kiddo. How was the date?

His mother had attached herself to the idea that the love of a good woman was all Nick needed to sort his life out.

Not too bad

He didn't have the heart to go there tonight.

Seeing her again? This could be the one!

Settle, Mom. It's early days

He could picture her face, as she pondered the best way to say something positive and encouraging regarding a girl and a situation about which she had no knowledge whatsoever.

I'm sure she's lovely. It's so good to see you getting out there. I know we had our doubts about your move but I can see now you were right. A change was just what you needed. We're so proud of you, kiddo.

Nick stared at the screen. How many times had his parents been his lifeline? His refuge when his world crumbled around him? So many times. He swallowed, as his thumbs hovered in indecision. Too many. He was twenty-four years old. No more.

Thanks Mom. Gotta go

Okay, sweetie. Talk soon. Dad says hi. Take care of yourself. Love you.

Love you too

He watched the screen until it went black, leaving behind nothing but the ghost-like reflection of his face, staring back at him.

Oblivious to his dreams and their destruction, the city went on around him; engulfed in its sounds and its scents, its endless sea of light and shadow, he realised that despite the abject failure of his move, he would miss the place when he left. And with that thought a shadow ghosted through his mind, unbidden. An old familiar...well, friend hardly seemed the right word. An old companion, at any rate. He leaned further still.

Oh, yes. He would miss the place.

If he left.

It was a hell of a long way down to street level. In distance, anyway. Gravity, with its remorseless tug, would doubtless make it a short trip, timewise. As a kid, he'd sometimes wondered what jumpers thought about on their way down. He presumed a bit of, "Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck," etc was par for the course, but if the fall was a long one, surely there was time for a little more than that?

However, as he perched on the edge, regarding the sheer side of the building plummeting away, it came to him that the primary emotion felt by most would be simple regret. No, not for having jumped. More so regret for what might have been. Regret for the little things, the seemingly inconsequential choices, the risks not taken, the roads not travelled—the decisions in life that may have led to...somewhere else. Somewhere other than teetering one hundred and fifty yards above the uncaring, unyielding and no doubt remarkably hard potential full-stop to the incomplete sentence of his life.

And there it was. His life. The shadow gained substance. The idea, so long suppressed, denied, rejected, was acknowledged. No longer some theoretical jumper, nor some abstract stranger's leap, but his life, his body, his very own doubt-riddled, dream-addled lump of biology and physiology, with all the hopes and fears and insecurities it contained, plunging its way to the ultimate escape from all care. Why else was he sat here like an idiot, with the light-spangled tapestry of the uncaring city stretched out before him, rather than riding the Muni back to whatever indignities the rest of his life might have in store?

Why indeed? Could he do it? Perhaps, he realised, as he got to his feet, the more pertinent question was, could he not? Did he have the strength, the will—the desire—to wrestle the shadow back into its box yet again? Fluttering darkly just beyond the reach of his vision, never before had its seductive menace felt quite so close. Never had his usual defences—his habitual, almost reflexive catalogue of reasons to go on—felt so insubstantial, so inadequate. So non-existent.

It felt as though he'd been running from the shadow for most of his life. Until tonight. Tonight, perhaps, when he pressed that elevator button for the top floor, he'd been running to it.

Whatever. It was time to stop running. Time to stop thinking. Enough was enough. Steeling his resolve, he drew a deep breath, took a last look down, and...

Stayed right where he was. Watching the miniature vehicles wending their way along the street so far below, he couldn't help but feel guilty at the prospect of making someone else suffer the consequences of the gravity-assisted solution to his problems. Nobody, regardless of their stance on climate change, gun-control or the correct way to hang a toilet roll, deserved to have their day ruined by a fast-moving, unemployed accountant plunging into their life.

Unsure whether he was relieved or annoyed, he got down off the ledge and made his way to the adjoining side of the building. Jackpot—not an unwitting, innocent potential plungee in site. Nothing but empty alleyway and dumpsters—the ideal drop-zone.

Although, perhaps not. While it would be fair to say his self-esteem was at an all-time low, dumpster-diving didn't hold much appeal as the way to go out, even if it was dumpster-diving of epic proportions.

So, with a sigh, he shored up his resolve and moved to a third side, the opposite to where he'd started. To find another road. More traffic. More potential unwitting and unwilling recipients of Nicks-from-heaven.

Growing impatient with both circumstances and himself, aware he was running out of options and possibly resolve, he stalked over to the fourth and final side. He looked down. He blinked. He kept looking, for what felt like a very long time.

Yes. This was right. This was perfect. Well, perfect would be more like the magic disappearance of his stutter, along with the corresponding appearance of a super-model bearing a job offer from NASA, but in the circumstances, this was as perfect as he was going to get. Decision made, doubts assuaged, with slow deliberation he backed away from the edge.

And—his features forming into a wry smile—broke into a flat sprint, before, with a final, compulsive leap, launching himself over the edge and into oblivion.