I had precisely three thoughts when the obsidian blade came screaming for the Man in White's head.
First: oh, good, finally someone other than me is about to get bisected by a nightmare.
Second: wait, he's not even moving, he's just standing there, smug as a cat who'd stolen the neighbor's pantry.
Third: oh gods above, he bent.
Because he did—he bent, so smoothly, so elegantly, that the word "dodge" felt like an insult. He leaned back with his hands still buried in his pockets, spine arching in a perfect crescent, boots never lifting from the cobblestones.
The obsidian sword tore through the air where his face had been a breath earlier, the force so sharp it carved a literal ripple through the space, a wave of pressure that blasted outward like someone had cracked the sky open.
The gust hit me square in the chest, hot and sharp, flinging my hair back and scraping a hiss across my skin like the air itself had grown teeth.
