[???]
Mikoto's breath hitched. A sharp gasp tore from his throat, his delicate form jolting as something cold and metallic slid through his body.
There it was.
A silver blade, slick with his own blood, protruding from his small, lithe torso.
The wound gaped around the impalement, his armor doing little to halt the deep, unforgiving penetration. His delicate, gauntleted fingers trembled as they gingerly brushed the slick metal. The warmth of his own blood seeped through his fingertips.
("A lung—")
His thoughts stumbled, fragmented. His vision blurred at the edges, his body screaming in protest, but his mind—his mind was still razor-sharp, before his attacker could even consider twisting the blade, Mikoto reacted.
His slender right arm snapped backward in a counter, his elbow driving into the unknown assailant's face, the impact crunched. A sickening collision of flesh and bone. Their skull caved inward, their nose shattered, their cheekbone collapsed like brittle glass.
