Marco Vasquez
The rooftop wind tasted like blood and betrayal, whipping my hoodie as I clung to Mamá’s trembling body, her blood soaking my sleeves: hot, sticky, mine to stop. Elena knelt beside us, her gun still smoking, eyes wild with a love and terror that mirrored the chaos in my chest. Kane’s guards swarmed, shouting into radios, but the world shrank to Mamá’s rasping breaths and the cousin’s corpse cooling on the helipad.
I was sixteen. I wasn’t supposed to be here: dodging bullets, tasering psychos, watching my mom bleed out because of me. My drone. My hack. My stupid, reckless need to play hero after Dad died. I’d built that taser-rigged quadcopter in my bedroom, soldering circuits while Elena thought I was gaming, thinking I could fix six years of grief with a keyboard. Now Mamá
