The alley opened ahead of me like a throat.

  There was no room for hesitation.

  Ignoring the screams of multiple organs, I broke into a sprint, keeping my axes low at my sides as I tried to steady my breath. The world had already narrowed down to angles and distances as I processed the lines of fire. If she was good—and she was—she wouldn't wait deep. She'd hold the mouth.

  She stepped out to the side with a foot still behind the wall. Just as I had expected.

  The muzzle flash came a fraction before the sound.

  I didn't stop moving.

  Right.

  The shot cracked past my left shoulder, heat whispering along my armor. I hit the wall at an angle, one foot planting, body coiling without breaking stride. The brick scraped under my boot, and I pushed off hard, twisting midair and turning my momentum to a weapon.

  Both axes came up over my head, edges licking the air in thin blue arcs. The vibration ran up my forearms, eager and alive.

  I came down on her like gravity with intent.

  She didn't panic.

  The spear snapped up in a clean vertical line, blade catching my axes with a violent hiss. Sparks sprayed sideways in white-blue shards. The impact rattled bone, far harder than I expected.

  She pivoted under the bind instead of absorbing it, letting my own force slide off her shaft. The motion was efficient, almost dismissive. My boots hit the ground a split second too late to recover balance before she stepped in and drove the butt of the spear into my chest.

  Armor took most of it.

  Still felt like getting hit by a train.

  I staggered back, plasma flaring briefly as one axe scraped her armor and failed to bite deep. She rotated with the motion, not giving space, the spear shaft sliding across my guard before she shoved with her whole body, flinging me away from the alley.

  My heels hit open road and I rolled with the momentum, letting it carry me instead of resisting. The sky widened above me, gray and cracked between leaning buildings.

  I came up on a knee, axes crossing in front of me as she stepped out of the alley mouth.

  She twirled the spear once, casual.

  The crystalline blade caught the light in a thin, almost invisible line. The micro-edge looked delicate. It wasn't.

  I reached up and tapped the side of my helmet, disengaging the infrared.

  Color rushed back in.

  Heat outlines weren't needed here. Not in open air. Not in a fight this close with someone this dangerous. What I needed was depth perception and clarity.

  She rolled her shoulders, then spun the spear in a tight flourish that was more display than function.

  I felt the flicker of irritation before the thought even formed.

  This wasn't a performance.

  She lunged.

  The spear came in straight for my throat — textbook extension, reach advantage obvious. I stepped off-line, left axe catching the shaft, right axe snapping toward her wrist. She retracted with a tight half-step and twisted, using the spear's length to redirect my counter before it could land.

  Fast.

  The butt end whipped toward my knee. I checked it with my shin guard and pivoted inside the arc, trying to close distance. She dropped the spear low and swept, forcing me to hop back instead of forward.

  Half a beat behind.

  We reset for a breath.

  Then she was in again.

  The next exchange blurred.

  Thrust. Parry. Bind. Riposte.

  The spear slid along my axes like it knew where they would be. Every time I defended and tried to snap a counter through an opening, the opening was already closing. She flowed around my attempts, always just out of range of a clean bite.

  I forced my breathing to settle.

  Don't rush.

  My style wasn't built on rushing.

  Eighty-six core movements. Attacks. Defenses. Counters. Counter-defenses. Feints. A layered blueprint. Built from everything I'd studied and broken down and reassembled into something that fit me.

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  I didn't improvise, I cycled.

  She thrust high. I slipped outside and brought the right axe down in a diagonal counter.

  She didn't just block the strike.

  She blocked the line I needed after the strike.

  Her spear angled not to stop the motion, but to prevent my follow-up. That was the difference. Her superior timing and skill.

  She wasn't so much better than me. A high tier four at best.

  It didn't make her any less dangerous.

  I stepped back as the spear's tip darted for my ribs. The edge scraped my armor, sending a shock through the plate that told me if it had been bare flesh, I'd be leaking.

  She pressed.

  I gave ground.

  Defensive posture wasn't weakness. It was data collection.

  Her thrusts favored my left side. She had judged my right axe as the primary threat and wanted it busy.

  She utilized linear footwork when attacking but curved when retreating. She created arcs around me, forcing me to turn and reset footing every exchange.

  "Is that it?" she called lightly. "I expected more."

  I didn't answer.

  Words were wasted oxygen.

  She lunged again, blade flashing for my collar seam. I caught it with crossed axes, sliding the shaft down and trying to trap it. She let go with one hand and punched with the other, gauntlet slamming into my visor hard enough to crack my head back.

  The impact rang my skull.

  Stars burst across my vision. My display flickered. For a half-second, depth vanished entirely.

  I stumbled two steps before catching myself.

  She didn't follow immediately.

  She walked.

  Circling.

  Spear low.

  "Thought you were supposed to be dangerous. Weren't you the one who took out Morris?"

  The irritation sharpened into something hotter.

  This wasn't sport.

  I always believed every serious fight should be treated like it was life or death.

  We were supposed to fight like one of us wasn't walking away. The only way to learn from combat was to respect it.

  The fact that she considered this casual enough to make conversation, was the highest form of disrespect one could afford an opponent.

  I exhaled slowly.

  Good.

  Anger was fuel if you kept it leashed. It dulled the pain echoing throughout my body, sharpening my focus.

  She charged again, spear darting in a rapid triple thrust—high, mid, low.

  I blocked high. Twisted mid. Dropped low. Axes moving in tight, efficient arcs. Sparks snapped between plasma and metal.

  The exchange lasted less than a second, but something had changed.

  I was beginning to see it.

  Every time I defended and launched a counter, she anticipated the counter and set her defense early. I was reacting to her attack. Then reacting to her reaction. This kept me a step behind.

  I was fighting one move at a time.

  She was fighting the pattern.

  The next thrust came for my abdomen.

  I parried left, letting the spear slide across my right axe.

  Instead of countering immediately, I began the motion—shoulders shifting as if I were going to chop for her exposed flank.

  She moved to block it.

  There.

  I aborted the first strike halfway through and rotated the second axe under her guard, not at her body—but at the shaft of her spear just above her grip.

  She tried to retract.

  Too late.

  The contact screamed as energy scraped along crystalline layers engineered to survive it. The spear wasn't damaged—but her hands jolted with the shock.

  That was all I needed.

  I stepped inside her reach.

  She jerked the spear vertical to shield her torso.

  Expected.

  Instead of striking her body, I hooked the lower half of her spear with my left axe and wrenched down while my right axe came in horizontally at her thigh.

  She twisted away, but not fully.

  The edge bit shallow across her armor.

  I had wounded her.

  She hissed through her teeth.

  It was then that I sensed it. Barely noticeable but undeniable.

  Fear.

  We reengaged instantly.

  She thrust. I deflected. Began a counter. Predicted her defense. Broke it. Then struck.

  The sequence became rhythm.

  Her spear movements grew tighter. Less flourish. Less confidence.

  We traded space in the road, sparks flying as our weapons collided. I felt a rush building—not chaotic or blinding.

  Clear.

  This was the edge.

  The moment where pieces aligned.

  My mind was no longer lagging behind the present. It was running ahead of it, mapping her possible responses before her muscles fully committed. Each missed strike wasn't failure—it was information.

  She feinted high.

  I didn't bite.

  The real thrust came low.

  I stepped inside and slammed my shoulder into her chest, axes locking her spear aside. The impact knocked us both off balance, but I recovered first and drove a downward chop toward her collar.

  She caught it.

  Barely.

  The force drove her knee toward the pavement before she shoved free.

  Her breathing was ragged now.

  Blood darkened the cut at her thigh.

  I was climbing.

  The gap between us was shrinking in real time.

  She disengaged and circled again, but this time slower.

  "It seems I was wrong," she muttered. "You will be worth killing."

  She lunged again, faster than before, desperation creeping into the attack. I slipped outside her range.

  Too easy.

  My right axe tore across her forearm plating, plasma flaring bright as it scored the composite. Her grip faltered.

  I rotated for the finishing blow.

  The rush surged higher now, almost intoxicating.

  This was the threshold.

  This was the understanding I'd been reaching for. I could feel it. I was practically at her level. Just a little further and I would fully grasp this experience and rise to a new stage.

  I stepped in—

  —and something cold punched through my back.

  For a split second, my brain didn't register it as pain.

  Just pressure.

  Then the pressure twisted.

  I looked down and saw the tip of a blade protruding from my abdomen, edge slick with red.

  The world lurched sideways as my grip loosened. Both axes slipped from my hands and clattered to the pavement, plasma flickering out.

  Sound rushed back in all at once.

  I dropped down to my knees.

  The spear user stepped back, surprise flashing across her face before relief replaced it.

  The blade withdrew from my back with a wet, dragging sound. I fell forward onto one hand, vision swimming. How could such pain be stimulated? Footsteps approached from behind me.

  I hadn't sensed them. I was so immersed in the fight that I was blind to my surroundings.

  Stupid.

  Hands grabbed the wounded woman and hauled her upright. She leaned on the newcomer, breathing hard.

  "Told you he'd be trouble," he said.

  I forced myself onto my side, propping up on an elbow. Blood pooled beneath me, warm and spreading.

  She looked down at me, eyes sharp despite the pain.

  "You were close," she admitted. "Closer than we expected."

  The second nodded. "You've got promise kid."

  Promise.

  A laugh bubbled up despite everything.

  Not hysterical. Just… amused.

  Both hesitated at that.

  Funny.

  They hadn't even realized their mistake. They were still taking this casually.

  My hands drifted slowly toward my belt. The motion was subtle. By the time they registered it, my fingers had already wrapped around the cold metal casings.

  I pulled free two grenades, one in each hand. My thumbs found the triggers. Understanding flashed across their faces. They both lunged straight at me.

  Too late.

  I pulled the triggers.