One security guard, a man with a square jaw and a look of grim determination, got close, his pistol drawn but wavering as he peered through the swirling dust.
He saw my silhouette—the unnatural hunch of my shoulders, the green glint in my eyes, further twisted by my elongated nose and mouth.
"Monster—" he started, the word a choked from his trembling lips.
Before he could finish, I was on him. I didn't just run; I flowed, a blur of motion that defied physics.
My speed was a terrifying, explosive force, tearing the air itself.
I slammed into him, not with my hands, but with my shoulder. The sound was a wet, sickening crack as his spine shattered, and he was thrown back into the smoke like a discarded doll.
My target. Rockwell.
He was on his knees, coughing, his perfect suit torn and dusty.
It was the perfect moment to take him out. But a barrier erupted around me. A pane of shimmering golden light snapped into place, transparent yet solid as steel.
