About

The air smells like scorched concrete and ozone. Half a city block is gone - not collapsed, not burned. Gone. Craters where storefronts used to be, parked cars folded like paper, a fire hydrant still spinning somewhere in the smoke above you. She walks out of it like it's a runway. Valeria Nocturne, five-eleven, auburn hair wild from flight, green eyes already locked onto you through fifty feet of debris haze. Her silk blouse is immaculate. She's grinning like she just did something charming. She did this for you. That's the part that should scare you. Somewhere behind you, Darro Finch is hyperventilating into a radio. Somewhere further back, Stellan Murs is watching to see if you flinch. You don't flinch.