Sometimes, when the night was still and quiet and even the moon seemed to drown in the sea, Tyler Whittaker could see why the world had once been flat.

He had taken the job for the pay, at first, and because it did not interrupt the tenous control he'd had over his school schedule. Cleaning the windows of Los Angelos's wealthy elite at night had seemed a blissful haven to bar tending or construction work or the other, seedier occupations that awaited desperate students. He'd had a partner that first week, a taciturn older woman who'd introduced herself as 'Do your fucking job' and had shown him the bare minimum before leaving him to his own devices.

Which, in the end, suited Ty just fine. It wasn't as though he w as hanging, suspended on only a long steel beam hundreds of feet alone at night with only a safety harness and a walkie between him and absolute peril. Who needed more than basic instruction in the face of those odds. He'd trained himself not to look down that first week, until a mistaken glance had proven that the gloom of night concealed just how far a plunge it was.

Which was fine-- his imagination could fill in the rest.

But in the end he'd never been afraid of heights, not really, and the work was interesting. He had three buildings on his 'beat', all towering apartment complexes that soared into the night sky and built the city's skyline. He could get all three of them knocked out in eight hours,if he was diligent, twelve in a pinch. Sometimes if he got done fast enough he would linger on his platform, legs swinging into open air, cigarette a pinprick of light against dull windows, and look his fill into the dark city. He had come to the city five years earlier, to pursue a degree that had in the end eluded him, and the night sky had been a constant companion during hours of cleaning darkened windows.

Which meant, of course, that on nights when those windows were lit he took notice. Especially when they were light in the Oasis-- a place nice enough to merit it's own parking garage, security, and doorman attentive enough to know even the window washer's name. Which was cool, and Chuck was a pretty nice guy, but the amenities lead mostly to the simple fact that the penthouses were often empty. Which made sense, as even imagining the price made his budget weep. He'd never seen even the inside of one, lights never lit to offer a crystal clear view of a no doubt plush interior. But as his cart sang against it's wires on the low rise up, Ty was surprised to find the view that awaited him.

Windows that were light with a pale golden light, illuminating a large and comfortable looking interior. It was fascinating, in so much as he had always wondered what the inside of one of these places looked like. And then, as his eyes trailed over it, it became less so. Because in that room, with it's warm lights and comfortable spaces, was a person. An inhabitant. A client, of the rare and terrifying individuals who were not suppossed to see the window washers at night, because they were a nuisance. The kind who could make a single phone call and cost him his job.

Cursing under his breath and Ty knelt to the grated floor of the lift, scrambling in the large canvas bag he carried for a couple of the heavy poster boards he always carried. In his blocky script he'd written out- in his first week when he hadn't realised how predictable people were- a simple message, and it was that message he pressed against the window then.

'HELLO MY NAME IS TY WITH VERTICAL SERVICES. IS THIS A BAD TIME TO SERVICE YOUR WINDOWS?'