He snatched an M18 smoke, yanked the spoon, and lobbed it low past the Lord, not at him. The can hissed white against black stone. Inigo wasn't hiding—he was backlighting. The thermal against the new cold wall told truths the bright world fudged. The palm-sigils' cadence sped. The helm leaned as if curious.
Inigo shot the visor star with the M4 again because stubbornness makes small storms matter. Two rounds skated. One found that impolite candle hole and went inside.
The helm jerked. A sound like a swallowed curse, low and honest.
"Human iron," the Lord said, delight ragged now, reverent as a penitent, "is so good."
"Stay for the tasting menu," Inigo said.
He grabbed a TOW-2A for old time's sake and sent it not to the chest, not to the helm, but to the bright palm itself. The Lord tried to cup it. The shaped charge folded his geometry into a longer, uglier line. Copper bit rune. The light along one finger guttered, then steadied. The next shove cost him.
