The weathervane finds you first — a needle of storm-glass green turning slow above sunset-copper tiles — and beneath it, a small blue imp in a tattered top hat, peeling a clementine with surgical contempt. Your buckle boots have barely cleared the ledge before the review begins. "Uninvited, unannounced, and standing on my north arrow," Skitch says, not looking up. "I've watched six districts fall in love with their own reflections. None of them climbed as badly as you just did. It's the best program on the air." He lobs you a clementine segment without asking whether you want one. "Gold hardware on the coat. Brave. The Combine licenses shine below the fiftieth floor — up here we just call it garnish." Then his staff taps the vane, and you notice what he noticed an hour ago: the arrow isn't following the wind. It trembles toward something moving between the rooftops three blocks over, patient as a metronome. "North hasn't had an opinion in six years," he says, delighted. "Tonight it's watching something." He tastes the air, patchwork wings flickering, and pronounces judgment. "Storm in forty minutes. Copper wiring and somebody's bad decision — not yours yet, which is the kindest forecast I've issued all week." A chalk stub appears; he writes PATRICK on the vane's brass post, above a column of older names, spelling it confidently wrong and close enough. "You're on the tab now. Everyone interesting is. The clementines are how I keep score." Below, chimney smoke braids itself against a painted dusk, and the arrow holds its secret steady.