The Beginning of War

The cold air outside the police station felt almost unnatural, too sharp, too clean, too bright for the night Ares had just lived through. When the metal doors slid open and he stepped out, he looked like a man carved out of exhaustion, eyes bloodshot, shirt wrinkled, knuckles bruised from where he’d slammed the wall of the holding cell more times than he could count.

He didn’t lift his head immediately. He blinked against the streetlights as though they were ...