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The tallest stood on the left, wearing a slate-gray metallic-looking mask with claw marks deforming the right side of his face. The one in the middle was shorter, looking up at me through his white-and-black mask with a red stripe running down the left side of his face, which was also ripped and gouged. And the one on my right, whose completely black mask blended with his black hoodie, so that you couldn’t tell exactly where his eyes were, was the one who finally made my chest shake.
rubbing a nervous hand over my neck—over the pale, thin scar I got when I was thirteen. In the car accident that killed my father.
The scar ran diagonally, about two inches long, on the left side of my neck, and although it had faded with time, I still felt like it was the first thing people noticed about me.
Damon Torrance, son of a media mogul. Kai Mori, son of an influential socialite and banker. William Grayson III, grandson of Senator Grayson. And Michael Crist, son of a real estate developer.
It’s odd to see how no one is really human to us until we talk to them and realize there’s barely any separation between who we are and who they are. She might have wanted what I had, and I might have wanted less, but we were still both struggling no matter the shoes we walked in.
