Alexander Kane

Marco collapsed onto the tunnel floor like a discarded weapon his frame limp in my grasp faint silver scars still warm, his chest moving in frantic breaths that assured me he was alive—truly alive not the red-eyed figure that had masqueraded as him moments before. The crown had vanished, turned to ash that clung to his hair like mourning dust. The tunnel walls no longer oozed code; the red emergency lights flickered briefly then settled into an orange glow. Overhead Brooklyn ...