Alexander Kane

The red vein under Marco’s skin was a live wire, sparking with every beat of his heart, writing VOLUME VI: THE LAST CODE in a script that was his own: my brother-in-law’s handwriting, the same scrawl he’d used to hack the Pentagon at fourteen, to save us from the root tree, to rewrite the wager’s end. The alley was a war zone of our survival: rubble smoldering, the brownstone’s corpse a crater, the air thick with ash, blood, and the faint, cloying rot of something ...