Fatal Glimpse

# The Thirty-Second Prophet The rooftop was slick with rain, the kind that made every surface a potential grave. Dakota Chance stood at the edge of the Meridian Complex, thirty stories above the revitalized downtown district, and felt the familiar surge building in their chest. Heart rate climbing. Adrenaline flooding the veins. The precognition would come soon. They always called Dakota a cautionary tale. The stunt performer who'd pushed too far, trusted the wrong sponsors, cut corners that shouldn't have been cut. A failed motorcycle jump three years ago had left them with a shattered left femur, a reputation in pieces, and exactly zero offers from legitimate production companies. The parkour underground was all that would take them now—dangerous, unregulated, and increasingly obsessed with stunts that bent the line between genius and suicide. But three months ago, something changed. The first vision hit during a simple warehouse climb. Dakota's hands had slipped on a rusted beam, and in the split second before falling, they saw it—the beam giving way completely, watched themselves plummet into jagged metal below. In that frozen thirty seconds of precognition, they'd caught the next handhold, pivoted left, found safety. The vision had saved their life. It happened again. And again. Each time the adrenaline spiked—right before a jump, during a dangerous climb, in those moments when mortality became real—Dakota would glimpse the immediate future like watching a ghost film of their own imminent death. Then they'd correct. They'd survive. The underground community noticed. Word spread through encrypted channels and darknet forums. Dakota Chance, the disgraced stuntperson, was back. And they were impossible to kill. But there was a price. Each vision came with something else. A fragment. A memory that wasn't theirs. The first time, Dakota saw a rooftop they'd never visited, under moonlight instead of rain. A figure in a leather jacket from the eighties, hair bleached white, performing an impossible backflip across a gap that was too wide, too dangerous. The vision lasted only a second after the precognition faded, but it was vivid enough to taste—the metallic flavor of fear, the electrical sting of ambition. The second time brought another fragment. The same figure, older now, teaching someone else. A younger person with uncertain eyes. Words Dakota couldn't quite hear, but the emotion was clear: desperation mixed with hunger. By the twentieth vision, Dakota had started keeping notes. The figure in the fragments was always the same person. Always performing increasingly impossible stunts. Always on this rooftop complex. And always, always, there was something in those fragmented memories that felt like a call. Come higher. Jump farther. Risk more. Tonight, standing in the rain, Dakota knew something had shifted. The vision came without warning—sharper than before, more detailed. A jump across a chasm between two warehouses. The gap was at least forty feet. The landing surface was crumbling concrete with exposed rebar. One mistake meant impalement or a three-story fall into the ravine below. In the vision, Dakota made the jump perfectly. Soared across the gap like gravity was a suggestion. But then—a figure appeared on the opposite rooftop. The same figure from the fragments, now so clear that Dakota could see their face. Young, maybe twenty-five, with eyes that burned like neon. The figure beckoned. Come back. One more jump. The vision ended. Dakota gasped, stumbling backward from the edge. That's when they saw the message spray-painted on the rooftop access door, the paint so fresh it was still dripping: "RETURN TO THE BEGINNING." Dakota had been investigating for weeks. Late-night trips to the municipal archives. Conversations with old-timers in the parkour community. They'd learned about Marcus Chen, the stunt performer who'd died here in 1987. He'd attempted the Meridian Jump—a legendary stunt that required leaping from one warehouse to another across a gap that had claimed two performers before him. Marcus had attempted it on a rain-slick rooftop, just like tonight. Nobody had ever successfully completed the Meridian Jump. Everyone who'd tried had either died or given up parkour entirely. The archives had one photo of Marcus. It was him. The figure from the fragments. Dakota's hands had shaken holding that old newspaper clipping. But here's what the official reports didn't mention: Marcus's body was never recovered. He'd vanished that night, leaving only a suicide note that read, "The rooftop remembers. It keeps what it takes." The underground community had made Marcus into a myth. They said his ghost walked these rooftops, testing those worthy enough to see him. Some said he was trying to protect the community by appearing as visions that saved lives. Others whispered darker things—that Marcus was recruiting, that he was luring skilled performers toward the same stunt that killed him, seeking a companion in whatever existed beyond the edge of those rusted warehouses. Dakota had become obsessed with finding the truth. The rain intensified. Dakota moved toward the Meridian point—the exact location marked on the old architectural blueprints, where the jump would be attempted. Their body moved with the focused precision that had made them famous before the fall. The competitive drive that had built their reputation was burning hot now, mixing with something darker. The need to prove themselves. The hunger to become legendary. And underneath it all, a voice that wasn't quite their own, whispering: Come back. Finish what was started. The opposite rooftop seemed to glow in the neon-soaked darkness. Thirty seconds of perfect precognition sat in Dakota's future like a gift. They could see themselves making the jump, landing safely, ascending into that higher world where only the truly dangerous belonged. But there was a problem. Dakota had been reviewing the old police reports all wrong. They'd been so focused on the mystery that they'd missed what was hidden in plain sight. In the original 1987 incident report, there was a secondary victim—a young stunt performer named Riley Chen who'd been hospitalized after the Meridian Jump. Riley had survived, but barely. The report mentioned severe psychological trauma and a statement that Riley had been "lured into the attempt by an older mentor figure." Riley Chen. Same last name as Marcus. Dakota's hands went to their phone, pulling up the social media profile they'd found weeks ago but dismissed. A parkour instructor named Riley Chen. Active in the underground community. Posting cryptic messages about "finishing the legacy" and "completing the circle." That's when it hit them. Riley wasn't being haunted by Marcus's ghost. Riley was Marcus's student, the person in those fragmented memories. And Riley had spent thirty-seven years obsessed with finishing the Meridian Jump. Obsessed with getting someone else to finish it. The precognition visions Dakota had been experiencing weren't supernatural. They were being induced. Triggered deliberately. Dakota had been testing equipment at Riley's facility for the past month—training gear that had felt slightly off, weights that seemed calibrated wrong, obstacle courses that stressed the nervous system in particular ways. Riley had been a mentor figure, exactly as described in those fragmented memories, always encouraging Dakota to push harder, to test the limits, to become legendary. The spray-painted message made sense now: "RETURN TO THE BEGINNING." Not Marcus's beginning. Riley's beginning. The moment Riley had stood on this very rooftop thirty-seven years ago, watching an older mentor perform an impossible jump. The moment Riley had learned that some stunts were worth dying for. Dakota's hands were shaking as they pulled back from the edge of the Meridian point. The precognition surged one final time—not showing the future, but the past. Dakota saw it clearly now. Riley Chen, younger, standing exactly where Dakota stood now. Marcus Chen, performing the jump. And the moment of impact. Not at the landing. At the takeoff. Marcus's feet had slipped. Just slightly. A mistake in the rain. A moment of hesitation that had killed him. But that wasn't what Riley remembered. Riley had rewritten it in their mind as something beautiful. Something worth pursuing. "I was wondering when you'd figure it out," a voice said behind Dakota. Riley emerged from the shadows of the rooftop access door. They were older now, weathered by decades of obsession, but their eyes burned with the same neon intensity from Dakota's visions. "You've been giving me the precognition," Dakota said. It wasn't a question. "Enhancing your natural sensitivity to adrenaline," Riley corrected. "Helping you see further. I've been studying precognitive markers for years. You're the first one who actually had it naturally. The equipment, the mentoring, the subtle psychological pressure—it all opens the pathways in the brain that allow extended temporal perception." "Why?" "Because I can't do it anymore," Riley said softly. "My body's too old. My mind's too trapped. But if I could find someone young enough, talented enough, driven enough to complete the Meridian Jump with genuine precognitive ability—someone who could actually see the future and still choose to make that jump—then maybe Marcus wouldn't be alone out there anymore." Dakota felt the hunger pulling at them. The adrenaline was rising again. The precognition was ready. They could see the jump perfectly now. They could feel the immortality waiting on the other side. "That's insane," Dakota whispered. "So is choosing to be legendary," Riley replied. "You came here because you wanted to rebuild your reputation. You stayed because you wanted to be something more than human. Look at yourself, Dakota. You feel it. The jump. The future. The glory." Dakota did feel it. The siren song of danger dressed in neon and concrete. But they also felt something else. The weight of the past three months. Every vision that had been engineered to make them crave the adrenaline more. Every moment of precognition that was really just Riley's manipulation, designed to build tolerance for greater risk. Every conversation where Riley had subtly, carefully, guided Dakota toward exactly this moment. The Meridian Jump had claimed multiple lives because it was impossible. But more than that, it was designed to create a mythology around failure. Each person who attempted it became a ghost story. And those ghost stories created the hunger in the next person. Riley had survived the jump once, when they were younger, when their reflexes were sharper. But they'd become trapped in that moment, unable to move beyond the thrill of nearly dying, unable to accept that survival wasn't the same as success. Now they wanted a companion in the myth. Dakota took a step back from the edge. "No," they said. Riley's expression shifted. "You don't understand what you're giving up." "I understand perfectly," Dakota said. "You're offering me the same thing you've been chasing for thirty-seven years. A lie dressed up as immortality. Marcus didn't conquer that jump. He died attempting it. And you've spent your whole life trying to make his death mean something by getting someone else to die too." "The precognition—" "Isn't real in the way you want it to be," Dakota interrupted. "I can see thirty seconds into the future when adrenaline spikes. But thirty seconds isn't enough to know the outcome of a forty-foot jump. It's just enough to keep me safe. Just enough to let me live to attempt another challenge tomorrow." Dakota moved toward the rooftop access, putting distance between themselves and the edge. "My reputation is already shattered," Dakota continued. "I came here thinking I could rebuild it by becoming dangerous. By pushing further than anyone else. But legendary doesn't mean dead. It means surviving to inspire others. It means using this ability to save lives, not to join Marcus in whatever ghost story he's become." Riley moved forward, and for a moment, Dakota thought they might try to force the issue. But instead, Riley simply sat down on the wet rooftop, their body folding in on itself like something deflating. "He called to me," Riley whispered. "Even after all these years. I could feel him on these rooftops. In the air. Waiting." "That wasn't Marcus," Dakota said quietly. "That was you. Waiting for yourself to become someone you could admire." The rain fell harder. In the distance, Dakota could hear the city breathing beneath the neon glow. --- Three weeks later, Dakota stood at the entrance to the Meridian Complex wearing a new credential. Safety advisor. The title had come with an unexpected offer from the municipal government, who'd quietly shut down Riley's mentoring operation and were now seeking to legitimize the underground parkour community. Riley was in a psychiatric facility downtown, finally getting treatment for an obsession that had calcified over decades. The building had been processed for evidence—the equipment carefully catalogued, the psychological manipulation documented, the whole operation dismantled. But the rooftops remained. They'd always remain. This was still a place where people tested their limits. Where danger and beauty intertwined beneath the neon sky. The Meridian Jump still stood as an impossible challenge, and someday, someone would attempt it. Dakota's job was to make sure that when they did, they'd understand what they were jumping toward. Not immortality. Not legend. Just the next moment. The next breath. The next chance to prove that survival was enough. The precognition was still there, still activated by adrenaline. But Dakota had learned to respect it as a tool, not a destination. Thirty seconds into the future was enough to prevent catastrophes. It was enough to save lives. That was a different kind of legendary. As Dakota climbed toward the training facility, they felt the familiar surge beginning—adrenaline rising, precognition activating. But instead of a vision of impossible stunts or a beckoning figure in the shadows, they saw something simpler. Themselves, standing safe on the opposite rooftop. Mission accomplished. Another day survived. The city hummed its electric song. Somewhere above, the rain was washing the spray-painted message from the rooftop door. New messages would appear soon. The legend would persist. The Meridian Jump would call to new performers with new hunger. But Dakota would be there. Watching. Warning. Saving those who could be saved. Because the rooftop remembered everything. It kept what it took. And Dakota had finally learned to remember something else—that being disgraced didn't mean being finished. That coming back meant choosing survival over spectacle. That the most dangerous stunt of all was building a life worth living. The neon and concrete could seduce, but they couldn't own you. Not if you refused to give them everything. Not if you learned to jump toward tomorrow instead of toward legend.