Blood on the Asphalt biker
This place was cleaner than a hospital and more armed than a battleship.
"Welcome home, Vanguard," a voice echoed from the shadows of the upper gantry.
We looked up.
Standing on the walkway, leaning on a cane made of black carbon-fiber, was a man. He wore a simple grey mechanic’s jumpsuit, grease stained on the cuffs. His hair was white, his face lined with the deep grooves of a man who had stared into the sun too long.
Marcus Steele.
He wasn't the glowing, ascended being we had seen in the Hall of Origins. He looked older, heavier. Mortal.
Bab Populer