Superhero Skin Black -

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.

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.

He stepped off the ledge.

By the time the truck screeched to a halt on the bridge, four guards were unconscious. Marcus stepped out into the headlights of the Viper convoy. Fifteen men fanned out, assault rifles leveled. 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 killed the lights.

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. Not the streetlights— all light

"No," Marcus said, his white eyes the last thing Razor saw before unconsciousness. "I'm just a Black man who got tired of running."

Only Ebon.

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. The Vipers were cocky

Marcus tilted his head. "You see what I let you see."

He was a ghost with fists.

"You're a demon," Razor gasped, just before a black baton swept his legs and a knee pinned his throat.

Marcus dropped through the sunroof.