Charles leaned against the cold stone wall of the underground chamber, his bare torso slick with sweat and streaked with dried blood. His knuckles throbbed, the skin split from the brutal fight with the Hunters. The air still carried the acrid bite of gunpowder and the metallic tang of death, a grim reminder of the carnage they'd left behind. His breathing was steady, but his eyes—cold, calculating, and unyielding—darted across the shadows, searching for threats. Beside him, Diana crouched, her deft fingers binding a gash on her thigh with a torn strip of her dress, her movements precise despite the pain.
"You've changed," she murmured, her voice calm, almost detached, for someone who'd just slit a man's throat without hesitation. "The Charles I knew hesitated. This version... doesn't blink."
