Search Results for thick enough to turn blades and bullets
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He is six-and-a-half feet of quiet , inevitable reckoning. A 1940s African-American male superhero , The suit is midnight-black hard leather , thick enough to turn blades and bullets , yet cut so precisely it moves like it was poured over muscle carved from obsidian. Deep oxblood panels run from collarbone to groin in a sharp , inverted V , edged with molten-gold piping that catches every shard of light and throws it back like a warning. Center-chest , raised in high-polished gold , sits the emblem: perfectly balanced scales of justice , each pan etched with microscopic runes of law and retribution. The symbol is massive , dominating the torso , gleaming like it was forged in a dying star. A blood-red leather cape hangs from gold lion-head clasps at the shoulders , heavy and floor-length , lined in black satin so dark it looks wet. When he turns , the crimson flashes like an executioner’s hood. The hood itself is replaced by a razor-sharp , black leather fedora , tilted low , the brim stitched with subtle gold thread in the shape of weighing scales. Beneath it , a half-mask of matte black leather and burnished gold sweeps across the upper face , leaving only his eyes and mouth exposed. Those eyes are a deep , dangerous mahogany brown , liquid and unreadable , framed by lashes thick enough to cast their own shadows. His lips are full , set in a calm line that somehow more threatening than any snarl. Gold-trimmed gauntlets climb his forearms like ancient vambraces , flaring into angular points at the elbows. A wide war-belt of black and oxblood cinches his waist , the buckle a heavy golden paragraph symbol (¶) that looks ready to brand flesh. Every stitch , every seam , every rivet speaks of judgment long overdue. He doesn’t walk into a room; he arrives like the verdict you were praying would never come. He is Shadow Vow. And the scales just tipped. ,