It didn't reply. Of course it didn't. Towers never did when you were correct. They only spoke when you were about to make a mistake.
"Madman," the copy spat, and it sounded less like judgment and more like frustration that Ludwig wouldn't play the role he was meant to.
"We're the same," Ludwig replied. Not a comfort. Not a confession. A refusal to pretend the copy was above him just because it moved cleaner.
As the Wrathful Death swiped at the copy and tore it apart. It wasn't a single decisive strike. It was a violent undoing, claws catching the copy's torso, ripping through ribs, dragging him across stone like he was nothing but cloth.
The copy's body split in a way that made the rooftop flash wet with blood. His head snapped to the side, eyes still open, still focused, still calculating even as the rest of him failed to keep up.
