The streets of Manhattan writhed with firelight, casting jagged shadows across a world that once stood tall and proud. Marvelo-Man ran hunched through the back alleys, ribs bruised, jaw aching, breath sharp and shallow. His cape was torn, caught in a shattered lamppost he had to rip free just to keep moving.
Behind him, Elijah's footsteps echoed—unhurried, brutal. The sound of a predator enjoying the hunt.
Max ducked into a derelict butcher shop, collapsing against the blood-smeared tiles. The scent of rot and smoke hung thick in the air. His knees buckled. He caught himself.
"Still running, Maxwell?" Elijah's voice rang from the alley. "You're limping now. Slower. You always had a limit, you just never hit it before."
Maxwell grit his teeth, pushing back to his feet. His fists trembled, not from fear, but from the cold, biting reality settling in: he couldn't win like this. Not like this.
He reached into his belt. The enhancer canister was still there—its pulse weak, like it knew it was unfinished. Unstable. Dangerous.
He stared at it.
No guarantees.
No second chances.
His eyes flicked up to the shattered glass window.
He couldn't hear Elijah anymore.
That scared him more than the footsteps.
Maxwell burst out the back of the shop into a narrow alley, hopping over a burning delivery truck. As he hit the ground on the other side, a fist caught his spine—hard.
He gasped, skidding into the street.
Elijah was there.
No witty line. No snarl. Just eyes wide with rage.
He grabbed Maxwell by the throat and slammed him into the hood of a burning Ford coupe.
"You think you're better?" he spat. "You think suffering makes you righteous?"
Maxwell kicked free, blood dripping from his nose. He threw a punch—it connected. Elijah reeled. Not far. But enough to feel it.
Max ran again. Not out of cowardice. But because there were too many people still alive in the area. Too many who would die if this kept going here.
He had to draw him away.
A plan half-formed in his mind. Nothing brilliant. Nothing clean. But something.
He passed a collapsed tenement. He remembered the subway access tunnel beneath it—the emergency vault.
If he could get there…
But Elijah was gaining.
Max jumped down into a bombed-out stairwell just as Elijah reached the edge. Concrete cracked under his boots.
"This ends, Maxwell," Elijah growled. "Tonight. You or me."
Maxwell didn't answer. He descended into darkness.
Each step down was a whisper of death.
And he didn't know if he'd be the one coming back up.