BLACK SKULLS | editing
"The thing about death," crooned a voice that was both one and many, "is that it doesn't exist. It never has and it never will. We think of it as an entity, insatiably greedy and terrifyingly tangible. Strip away that thin veil of your darkest nightmares, and you'll see that death is merely a stopped watch, a period at the end of your story. Nothing, nothing."
The Bone Carver wears a thousand faces, a thousand bodies. That of a prince, that of a pauper. Crooked fingers weave sin into skeletons and skin from the darkest swaths of iniquity. But Nina Zverev is pure, and she will be his undoing.