The sky crackled above the city as if it, too, were bearing witness to the madness below.
Mr. Crow's body twisted and snapped grotesquely as the riot drug surged through his veins. His arms bulged unnaturally. His veins lit up in red beneath his pale skin. His eyes—no longer human—burned like crimson fire.
Across from him stood Bunnyman, battered, bloodied, barely able to keep his legs from trembling.
And yet… he didn't run.
Mr. Crow cracked his neck, grinning like a demon.
"Let's finish this, rabbit boy."
He charged.
Bunnyman barely dodged the first punch—it missed his head by an inch but shattered a concrete post behind him.
He leapt over a fallen mailbox, rolled under a flying kick, and ducked another swipe that carved the side of a truck.
He wasn't fighting.
He was surviving.
Every time he tried to get close, Mr. Crow would counter too fast, too strong.
"I made this city what it is!" Mr. Crow roared. "I gave it chaos! I gave it life!"
Bunnyman didn't reply—his focus was razor-thin, every breath calculated, every step laced with fear and strategy.
His ribs ached. His vision blurred. But his instincts screamed: Stay moving.
Mr. Crow was wild, unpredictable—but he wasn't invincible.
He slammed his fists into the ground, sending a shockwave through the street. Bunnyman was flung back, crashing through a glass window.
He coughed, blood on his lip, as Mr. Crow walked toward him slowly—like a predator savoring the kill.
"You can't dodge forever," Mr. Crow hissed.
Bunnyman stood, barely. But he didn't run.
He smirked.
"You're right," he muttered. "But now I know something I didn't before…"
Mr. Crow paused, narrowing his eyes.
Bunnyman's voice steadied.
"Now I know your weakness."