Crane didn't need the reminder. He leaped, his body a blur of practiced motion. He caught a ledge, swung over a gap, and rolled onto a flat roof. He was a tracer, a ghost of the skyline, but even ghosts had to fear what came out at night.
The air in Harran didn’t just smell like decay; it smelled like heavy, wet copper. Articles on the topic: "Dying light"
"Move fast, Crane," the response crackled through. "The shadows are stretching. You don’t want to be caught on the street when the light dies." Crane didn't need the reminder
He reached the crates just as the first siren wailed—the city’s mournful warning that the sun had dipped below the horizon. The transition was instant. The ambient groans of the "biters" below sharpened into something more predatory. He was a tracer, a ghost of the
"Brecken, I’m near the drop zone," Crane said into his radio, his voice tight.
He hit the ground running, his lungs burning. His UV flashlight flickered in his hand, his only shield against the nightmares that shunned the light. He rounded a corner and saw the Tower—the high-rise sanctuary—shining like a lighthouse in a sea of monsters. "Open the gate!" he screamed into the radio.
Crane pulled the Antizin from his bag, his hands finally shaking. He looked out through the reinforced glass at the pitch-black city. The light was dead, but for one more night, he wasn't.