Deacon didn't speak at first, didn't pace quickly or lash out the way a younger man might've done when faced with such a precise cornering.
Instead, he simply drew back, a slow movement that gave his body room to breathe without changing anything about his posture, his weight, or the way his eyes stayed fixed on the shard.
The flicker of what remained from Pale Mirror's transmission hadn't changed—still faint, still pulsing with that same irregular rhythm, like a heartbeat that refused to quit even after the lungs stopped.
His mouth curled slightly, not out of humor or rage, but in that flat, tight way people smile when they finally see the shape of a trap they almost stepped in.
Smart. Not brave. But smart. The kind of move someone makes when they can't win head-on, so they shift the rules just enough to bring you down to their level.
He took a single step forward, then pivoted, slow and clean, beginning a deliberate circle around the chamber's edge.
