rock. Emerging from the hushed stream is a tall man shrouded in a long leather coat that sways the same way he does—deliberate and irritated.
He’s physically imposing, rising several feet taller than I am. I find myself staring up at him as if I were a tiny child when he comes to an impactful stop in front of me. The first thing I notice is the overhead lights perfectly reflect off his smooth, bald head. His chocolate skin is so dark that his eyes appear to float in their cavernous sockets. The second thing I notice is that the air around him is thick with the unmistakable sensation of utter despair. And that’s before he speaks in a crackling voice that’s both deep and hollow, “Hayden Flynn, you have been far more trouble than we ever expected.”
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