Meanwhile, back at the burning campsite, Winter and No. 2 circled one another, the tension so thick it felt suffocating. The heat from the distant wreckage clashed with the chill radiating off Winter's fists, both men's breaths quick and ragged.
No. 2 suddenly lunged, red hair flying, forcing Winter back with a furious assault. Steel clashed against frost, sparks and shards flying as Winter fought for every inch.
"You think you're special?" No. 2 snarled, voice cracking through the chaos. "It's all your fault! All of it!" He drove Winter back with a brutal swing of his scythe. "Every great assassin, my comrades....dead, because of you!"
Winter blocked the next strike, jaw clenched. "You really think I wanted any of this?"
No. 2's eyes blazed with wild grief. "You always survived. You always beat us. And now—now I'm the only one left!" He spat blood, voice breaking with rage and pain. "You even ruined No. 3's life! You ruin everything!"
Winter hesitated for half a heartbeat, just long enough for No. 2 to drive a savage kick into his ribs, sending him sprawling. No. 2 advanced, trembling with fury, using his accusations as a shield against his own guilt.
"You want to know something?" No. 2's voice twisted into a bitter laugh. "Me and No. 3—we're special. Enhanced. Reaction times, speed—short bursts, faster than anyone else. But unlike her, I'm going to finish this!"
He launched himself forward with inhuman speed. Steel and ice clashed in a blur of motion. Winter tried to match him, but No. 2 was a whirlwind, always just ahead, always pressing the attack.
Suddenly, Winter felt a searing pain across his side—a devastating cut blossomed just above his hip, blood soaking through his shirt. He staggered, nearly collapsing.
No. 2 grinned, triumphant, but then his eyes widened in confusion as steel spikes erupted around him, impaling the ground in a cage. He dropped to his knees, the scythe clattering from his grip, breath ragged.
Tears streaked down No. 2's face as he stared at the spikes, realization dawning. "No... No. 3... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..." His fingers dug into the dirt, shoulders shaking with grief.
Winter, breathing heavily, clutched his wound and watched warily. "You should know... she's alive," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "No. 3... she managed to escape. Whatever punishment they had for her—she got out. She's recovering at the cabin. She's safe."
For the first time, a weak, broken smile crossed No. 2's face. "She... she made it?" He laughed softly, the sound choked by sobs. "Good... That's good..."
He slumped forward, the light already fading from his eyes. "Tell her... I'm sorry..."
The last of his strength gave out, and No. 2 fell limp among the spikes, tears still shining on his cheeks as the fire reflected off his red hair.
Winter stood over him, battered and bleeding, the weight of loss and survival heavy on his shoulders. He bowed his head for a brief moment of respect, then turned, knowing he had to get back to the others—hoping he wasn't already too late.