Alexander Kane
The Hudson stank of diesel and dead fish, a sour, oily reek that coated the back of my throat and refused to let go. I stood on the cracked pier, boots planted wide against the wind that whipped off the water, rifle slung across my chest but my hands never far from the grip. The warehouse was nothing but a heap of smoking rubble behind us now, the night sky bruised purple and starless above the city. My ears still rang from the collapse, a high-pitched whine that overlaid every other sound, but the silence that followed was worse; too complete, too heavy, like the world itself was holding its breath and waiting for the next lie to drop.
Elena leaned against my side, her weight familiar but heavier than it should have been, as though the night had poured lead into her bones
