His name was Marcus Webb, and his skin wasn't a suit. It was his own. The world called him .
"I’m not a man tonight," Marcus whispered back, his voice a low gravel. "I’m a headache they won’t wake up from."
He stepped off the ledge.
Marcus tilted his head. "You see what I let you see."
"No," Marcus said, his white eyes the last thing Razor saw before unconsciousness. "I'm just a Black man who got tired of running." superhero skin black
He moved. A disarm here. A joint lock there. The sounds were wet and final: crack, thud, groan . Each Viper fell not to a flashy energy blast, but to precise, economical violence. Razor turned on his thermal goggles—and saw nothing. Marcus’s skin had gone room-temperature.
But Marcus was born in this darkness. He was the darkness. His name was Marcus Webb, and his skin wasn't a suit
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.