In the neon-drenched canyons of Novo-Gotham, the sky was a perpetual bruise of purple and smog. But tonight, a different kind of darkness moved through the alleys of the Kiln District.
Not the streetlights— all light. A low-frequency emitter in his belt harmonized with the bridge's power grid, plunging a half-mile radius into absolute, primordial darkness. The Vipers screamed, firing blindly into the void.
"You're a demon," Razor gasped, just before a black baton swept his legs and a knee pinned his throat.
He killed the lights.
Only Ebon.
His name was Marcus Webb, and his skin wasn't a suit. It was his own. The world called him .
Kaela’s voice returned. "Clean sweep. No casualties. No footage. They're calling you a myth." superhero skin black
"I’m not a man tonight," Marcus whispered back, his voice a low gravel. "I’m a headache they won’t wake up from."
He stepped off the ledge.
He moved. A disarm here. A joint lock there. The sounds were wet and final: crack, thud, groan . Each Viper fell not to a flashy energy blast, but to precise, economical violence. Razor turned on his thermal goggles—and saw nothing. Marcus’s skin had gone room-temperature. In the neon-drenched canyons of Novo-Gotham, the sky
The Vipers were cocky. They had laser grids, thermal scanners, and motion detectors. But they had never faced someone whose body heat blended with the cold steel, whose movement was so fluid it looked like spilled oil.
Marcus dropped through the sunroof.
Not a shadow. The Shadow.