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Krishnan

Krishnan perceives the black shape only peripherally, but as soon as he does he slams a freeze on the air, a long pipe, reaching out all the way back to the distant rooftop where it’s crouched. Even so, he’s barely fast enough.

It’s already holed the window, and the saltshaker is caught in mid-explosion. Brooks leans forward, wondering, to look at the tiny lead shape suspended inches from his face.

“Don’t,” grates Krishnan, using every bit of will to keep it from moving. Brooks touches it anyway, then jerks his hand back with a hiss: even frozen, the bullet still burns.

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