It was midnight.

Franklin walked through the Vinewood Hills. He hid and then wandered around gated estates, hopping easily over walls and fences. Houses were large blocks with textures that displayed, clipped, did not look quite right, and behind those wrapped cubes there are families, cars, lights and lives. He did more. He did less. The sun came up and the day decayed and Franklin did more of the same.

Michael jumped through a door and ragdolled and hurt himself and didn’t comment, didn’t say anything. He hit the ground and he stood up and he did something, he never fell down, it never happened. He ran and jumped into a waist-level rail, flipped over it, fell three stories.