Black - Superhero Skin

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

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

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

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.

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. "You're a demon," Razor gasped, just before a

Only Ebon.

Marcus dropped through the sunroof.

Not a shadow. The Shadow.