My eyes stayed glued on the person in my hands for a few seconds, unable to say anything.
The person was Milo. He was so beaten and battered that I almost couldn't recognize him. His glasses were broken, the frames hanging crooked off his face and barely clinging to one ear. Shards of the lenses had scratched thin lines across his cheeks, and his skin had taken on a grayish pallor that told me he needed medical attention as fast as I could get it.
I could hear the sounds of strikes behind me, hands whipping through the air and crashing against each other with enough force that the impacts alone shook through my chest.
His pulse was still there, but slow. For a moment, I ran through my mind wondering what could have gone wrong. The answer was slightly obvious from what the man himself had said.
'I guess the Manhattan people caught up.'
