Not a soldier. A woman.
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He tore through chain-link fences like they were lace. He leaped over a convoy of Humvees, his shadow swallowing them whole for a single, terrifying second. Bullets pinged off his back. A missile locked on—he caught it, crushed it in his palm like a rotten fruit, and threw the mangled wreckage back at the launcher. Not a soldier
First, the bones: a symphonic crackling like ice breaking on a river. Ribs expanded, spine elongated, clavicles burst through the skin of his shoulders only to heal an instant later. Then the muscle—fibers multiplying, twisting, coiling into cables of jade and emerald. His shirt vaporized. His pants, mercifully, were stretch-woven (he’d learned that lesson in a Kansas Walmart bathroom three months ago). He tore through chain-link fences like they were lace