"Immortality means nothing when everything you love can die."
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"Daddy!"
A young girl—seven years old, maybe—launched herself at a young man who couldn't have been older than twenty-two. He was tall, 6'2", lean but defined, muscles clinging to his frame like they'd been carved rather than earned. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, abs sharp enough to grate cheese on. His skin was light bronze, unblemished.
His hair—deep black threaded with ashen silver—hung wild and shoulder-length, catching the orb's light in shimmering beads. His eyes were piercing grey, like polished steel, glinting with equal parts amusement and apathy. His jawline could cut glass. His lips were... well. Not that he'd admit they were kissable.
He was Zeke.
Yep. That's me. You're probably wondering how I got into this situation.
To understand that, we'd have to go back hundreds of deaths.
Fuck you, Tower.
If you're reading my mind—fuck you.
I'm done begging.
Who wouldn't be, after dying this many times?
