Atlas blocked my punch easily, his forearm snapping up like a steel bar slamming into place. The impact still echoed—bone on bone—sending a concussive crack through the basement. The wire wrapped around my fist screamed as it bit into his skin, carving thin red lines across his arm. Blood sprayed outward in short arcs, misting the dust-choked air. The concrete beneath our feet fractured further, spiderweb cracks racing outward.

  He cocked his right fist back, twisting his torso wide. Muscles layered over muscles bunched and rotated, his entire frame winding like a bow preparing to fire. The air displaced by the motion shoved loose debris away from him, pebbles skittering across the floor. “This is my full power!”

  The punch landed.

  It wasn’t just a hit—it was an event. His fist slammed into my cheek and detonated. The shockwave tore outward, pulverizing the air itself. I felt my jaw collapse inward as if struck by a falling building. Bone gave way with a wet, grinding snap. My head whipped sideways, vision exploding into white static as the force carried through my neck and spine.

  I smiled.

  Blood sprayed from my mouth in a fan as my jaw caved, teeth cracking and breaking loose. “That’s some pussy shit!”

  I snapped forward, feet grinding as I forced my body to move despite the damage. I jabbed for his face. Atlas reacted instantly, eyes squeezing shut as my wire-laced fist whipped past. The wire tore into his lips, split his nose open, peeled skin away in ribbons. Blood poured down his face, splashing onto his chest and dripping onto the floor in heavy drops.

  Atlas staggered half a step, boots crunching through rubble. He spat a mouthful of blood that splattered against the far wall and slid down in a dark streak.

  He clasped his palms together overhead, veins bulging as he raised them high. “Fuck you!”

  He brought the sledgehammer strike down.

  I leaned back at the last possible moment. The blow missed my skull by inches and obliterated the floor instead. Concrete exploded. The impact cratered the basement, the force traveling through the structure and rattling the entire building above us.

  He really was straightforward.

  I snapped my wrist and threw wire downward. It slithered across the rubble like a living thing, wrapping around my dress shoe. I shifted my weight sharply, using the tension to redirect my momentum, and launched a roundhouse straight toward his liver. Atlas reacted just in time, slamming his palm into my shin. The collision sent a jolt through both of us, but the wire didn’t care—it tangled around his arm and my leg, binding us together.

  I didn’t stop moving.

  I threw my last wire around my left shoe and leapt. The line went taut midair, yanking my body into a violent spin.

  I rotated and snapped my leg backward, driving my heel into his face. “Fuck you too, haha!”

  The kick landed clean. His cheek burst open under the impact, flesh splitting as blood sprayed outward. His head snapped sideways, neck muscles straining to keep it from twisting too far. His nose collapsed with a crunch, blood pouring freely now, splattering across the debris-strewn floor.

  I landed lightly despite the damage, boots skidding. The pain was becoming unbearable at this point.

  Atlas raised his palm defensively, blood running between his fingers. His other hand shaped itself into a spear hand. Without hesitation, he dragged it across the center of his palm. Flesh split. Bone cracked. Fingers severed cleanly, along with the wire binding us. They hit the ground.

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  My leg came free. I landed in a crouch and launched a diagonal straight toward his chest.

  He caught it.

  His grip crushed my fist like it was made of clay. Bones collapsed inward. My hand instantly useless—twisted, shattered, destroyed.

  That hand was done.

  With that spear hand hand, Atlas thrust forward. His fingers slid between my ribs like knives, punching through muscle and flesh. He held it there. Locked in. My body froze around the intrusion.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  He bent down until we were face to face. Blood dripped from his chin onto my chest.

  I spat directly into his right eye. “I won’t stop, bastard.”

  I drove a left uppercut into his chin. It hit, but it didn’t move him. It only cut skin deep, wire biting flesh. Atlas flexed his face and the accumulated cuts sealed shut, muscle and skin knitting together before my eyes.

  He didn’t even flinch.

  “Let’s continue getting down and dirty,” he said calmly. “You only have one good hand left.”

  I stood my ground, blood pooling at my feet. “You mean us both. Your fingers aren’t growing back, asshole.”

  He flashed his right hand.

  The fingers were whole again. Perfect. Untouched.

  Impossible.

  He spit into my eye. “My blessed body allows me to grow back limbs.”

  His fingers curled inside me, brushing my liver. “I haven’t fought a main villain in a while. You’d have to kill me to complete your mission. A near impossibility.”

  He tightened his grip. Pain flared so violently my vision dimmed.

  “But you don’t need luck.” he continued. “If you knock me out, I’ll leave.”

  He pulled his fist back near his neck. “We stay close. Rapid blows. No restraint.”

  The basement felt smaller. The air heavier.

  “The record is seven punches. Zion holds it. Let’s see if you beat it.”

  His fist slammed into my chest.

  The impact drove the air from my lungs. Blood exploded from my mouth. My ribs screamed as something inside shifted wrong. I hit back instinctively, slamming my fist into his liver. I felt resistance, but it landed.

  He hit me again. I hit back.

  Blood sprayed. The floor darkened beneath us.

  Atlas yelled, “That’s three!”

  He was bigger. Taller. I couldn’t reach his head. I reached into my pocket, fingers slick with blood, grasping wire.

  His punch crashed into my gut. Something snapped. “That’s four! You sure you want to waste time?!”

  Fuck you.

  I struck again. A bruise bloomed on his side. He clicked his tongue and smashed his fist down onto my skull. Bone fractured. My vision dimmed.

  I hit harder. Somehow... harder.

  I struck before he could. My wire tore through muscle.

  He hit my forehead again. I went with it, collapsing forward. Liquid pooled beneath me—blood. Mine.

  He laughed. “That’s six!”

  Hematite won’t die here!

  With my mangled fist, I ripped his hand out of my body. Atlas’ eyes widened for the first time. He launched a double palm strike.

  Death, for sure.

  I jumped.

  His palms smashed through empty air, shattering the floor beneath. I kneed him in the Adam’s apple. His mouth flew open.

  I shoved my wire inside.

  It tore through soft tissue the instant it entered, slicing flesh that was never meant to be cut. Heat, resistance, then give—his throat convulsed around the intrusion as blood flooded upward. The wire scraped against cartilage and locked in place as his body reflexively tried to breathe.

  Nothing came in.

  Nothing went out.

  I forced his the wire down further, driving my knee and weight into the motion, collapsing his airway beneath the pressure. The structure meant to keep him alive folded under my grip, and the wire cinched tighter as his neck spasmed.

  His arms flailed.

  Not strikes. Not counters. Panic.

  Fists slammed blindly into the air, into the floor, into my shoulder—strength without aim, power without thought. His legs kicked, boots gouging trenches through broken concrete as his body fought for oxygen that wasn’t there. His chest heaved violently.

  His movements slowed.

  The flailing turned erratic, then weak. Tremors replaced force. His fingers clawed at nothing, nails scraping uselessly against my arm, then slipping away entirely. His eyes went wide, unfocused, the light behind them dimming as blood and pressure starved his brain.

  His body went heavy all at once. The tension drained from him in an instant, weight collapsing downward as if the strings holding him upright had been cut. He hit the floor hard, the sound dull and final, dust puffing up around his still form.

  He fell.

  I let go and stumbled back.

  He would be out for more than a few hours.

  My legs barely listened anymore. Each step toward the stairs felt delayed, disconnected, like my body was operating on borrowed time. The basement swayed around me, walls bending, floor tilting as my vision smeared into streaks of gray and red.

  Pain caught up all at once.

  Blue shoes appeared above me on the final step. “Surge really is a miracle.”

  I dropped.

  Hematite knows who that voice belongs to.

  That’s H—