Superhero Skin Black (Trusted — BLUEPRINT)

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.

When the police arrived, sirens wailing, the convoy was a graveyard of groaning thugs. And sitting on the hood of the lead truck was a single, pristine, black domino mask. superhero skin black

He was a ghost with fists.

In the dark of the truck's cabin, the first guard saw a flash of white eyes— just eyes—floating in the void. Then, a black baton cracked against his temple. The second guard turned, gun raised. Marcus didn't dodge. He absorbed . His skin seemed to swell, swallowing the muzzle flash. The bullet hit a patch of his duster, and the nanoweave turned it into a dull thud. Marcus grabbed the barrel, crushed it like a tin can, and whispered, "Sleep." By the time the truck screeched to a

Unlike the spandex-clad paragons who fought in broad daylight, Ebon was a rumor. A glitch in the city's optical sensors. He stood six-foot-four, his deep brown skin seeming to drink the light itself, making him a negative image against the city’s glare. He wore no mask—only a high-collared, matte-black duster that whispered when he walked. Two matte-black batons rested on his thighs, not for show, but for the brutal, silent ballet of close-quarters justice. When the police arrived, sirens wailing, the convoy

Marcus dropped through the sunroof.