The air above Manhattan tasted like death.
Not metaphorical death. Actual death—the copper-and-rot flavor of something fundamental ending. Reality developing gangrene while seven million people went about their evening commute pretending the sky wasn't tearing itself apart.
I stood on the Kane Building rooftop watching the dimensional rift expand. Started small—maybe ten feet across. Now it was half a mile wide and growing. Spatial distortion creating visual effects that made eyes water trying to process geometry that shouldn't exist.
"Marcus, what's the energy signature reading?" Professional voice. Hunter's training keeping panic from voice that wanted to scream about impossibility unfolding above the city I'd spent six years calling home.
"Off every scale we have. Whatever's coming through isn't just powerful, Boss. It's big."
