He dropped his camouflage, stood perfectly still, and said, “Hey, Pete. Look at me.”
And Miles did something Ben never would have done. He didn’t go for a killing blow. He went for the heart.
The man smirked. It was a hollow, bitter expression. “Relax, kid. I’m not here to stay. I’m tracking a variant. A bad one.”
And with a final flash of magenta, Ben was gone. The ozone smell faded, replaced by the distant sound of a bass line from a street musician three blocks away.
