Amari wasn't breathing heavy.
But something behind his ribs wasn't settling.
It wasn't fatigue—not exactly. It was irritation laced into instinct, the kind that grows in fighters who have survived too much to be toyed with, too long to be impressed by flair, and too often to treat resilience like spectacle.
Lionel, on the other hand, was grinning wider.
His steps no longer held ceremony—just curiosity. And the copies he kept flaring into existence didn't move with desperation, but with rhythm, mirrored laughs tracing the perimeter of each dodge like a chorus that never missed its beat.
"You're faster," Lionel admitted mid-spin, voice light as his illusion ducked Amari's blade while the real one pressed left, dagger skimming close to his shoulder. "I've seen a hundred with Uncos move slower than your legs."
Amari didn't respond.
