There are millions of me. Literally, in this city there are over a million of me. People chase me away as if I’m just part of the garbage that lines the gutters and collects in the dingy corners of buildings. They’ve called me and all my kind “the rats of the air.” To them, I’m nothing. Lower than nothing.
But I am the one who surveys the whole city in one glance, plotting from a roof out of sight from those below whose eyes are only in front. I’m constantly plotting and searching. I may be indistinct and perhaps a little dirty. But I’m coming for you, and only I know who my next target will be.