Skin Black | Superhero

"I’m not a man tonight," Marcus whispered back, his voice a low gravel. "I’m a headache they won’t wake up from."

And as the first patrol car’s light swept across the bridge, there was no one there. Only the night. Only the black. superhero skin black

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. "I’m not a man tonight," Marcus whispered back,

Kaela’s voice returned. "Clean sweep. No casualties. No footage. They're calling you a myth." Only the black

In the neon-drenched canyons of Novo-Gotham, the sky was a perpetual bruise of purple and smog. But tonight, a different kind of darkness moved through the alleys of the Kiln District.

The Vipers were cocky. They had laser grids, thermal scanners, and motion detectors. But they had never faced someone whose body heat blended with the cold steel, whose movement was so fluid it looked like spilled oil.

His name was Marcus Webb, and his skin wasn't a suit. It was his own. The world called him .