Rosa Vasquez

The red vein under my skin was a live spark, crackling with every beat of my heart, writing VOLUME VII: THE NEW BLOOD in my own handwriting—the same scrawl I’d used to tag subway cars at fifteen, to code with Marco in encrypted chats, to sign my name on Tía Rosa’s hospital forms when she thought I wasn’t looking. The alley was a slaughterhouse of our survival—rubble smoldering, the brownstone’s corpse a crater, the air thick with ash, blood, and the sweet rot of ...