The moment Charlie had commenced the match, the cleaver was already heading towards Kiwi's midsection.
She had quick reflexes, which was what prevented her torso from leaving her legs in that instant. The metal sang through the air—a whistling note that seemed to stretch forever. But it wasn't enough. When she jumped back, the cleaver still hit her, tearing deep into her abdomen as blood and intestines like pale worms spilled out from a ruptured can. The wet, meaty sound echoed off the concrete walls.
Before she even had time to process what had happened—before she even had time to lash out with her claws, or even spit blood—a spiked hammer came down from above. Rhett blinked. The world turned red.
In the next second, all her bones, skin, flesh, muscle and tissue had been crushed, reduced to nothing more than a grotesque abstract painting splattered across the pale concrete. The splatter pattern reminded Rhett sickeningly of modern art—random, meaningless, final.
