The rubble shifted.

Stone ground against stone, a mountain of debris groaning as something beneath it refused to stay buried. Dust clouds billowed upward, catching the harsh glare of military spotlights that had already begun sweeping the crater's edges.

Azrael's hand broke through first.

Fingers blackened with soot, trembling with exhaustion, clawing at concrete and twisted rebar. The Black Flame flickered weakly along his arm—barely visible, barely alive, but still burning. Still refusing ...