Lena
The question hangs between us like a heavy fog.Who the hell are you really? Max doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away. Instead, he lets his hand drop from the back of my neck, but the ghost of his touch still burns against my skin. He paces a short, tight line in the alley, his boots crunching over bits of broken glass.
“In this city, I’m whatever people need me to be,” he says, his voice dropping into that low, sandpaper rumble. “To the Vipers, I’m the end of their bloodline. To the men in the high-rises, I’m the necessary evil that keeps the streets from swallowing them whole.”
“That’s a politician’s answer, Max. I’m not asking what you do. I’m asking who you are.”
He stops pacing and turns to me. The morning light finally hits his face, revealing the fine lines at the corners of
