The gun shot was a full stop, a period punched into the world that ended a sentence Marcus had been reading his whole life. The sound did not fade; it sank, a stone dropped into the deep well of him, and the echo began its work, a vibration in the marrow of his bones that felt older than he was.
He stood over the boy, a kid from the Jordan Park set, and felt a terrifying nothing. The absence was a presence in itself, a hollow hum behind his sternum.
He was Reaper. The name was a tattoo, a promise, a sigil inked over his heart. He had earned it. The warm, heavy steel in his hand felt like the only real thing. He was a harvester.
But in that humming void, he understood he was also the
crop.