There was something terrible about deliberate movement. The kind that made space yield around it. People sensed it, even if they didn't understand what they were seeing.
Someone screamed. Another started to film.
He heard the wind, sharp and dry. The metal groan of the pretzel cart settling into its final shape. The static from the walkie-talkie of a traffic officer too stunned to use it.
The world slowed.
Harry didn't think of himself as fast. He didn't need to be. The body moved the way it had learned — refined, drilled, beaten into grace through necessity and war. This wasn't about reflex.
It was geometry.
The enhanced man — no, not a man. A weapon someone had lit and lost — lunged with the graceless speed of someone convinced that force alone could solve problems.
Harry sidestepped. Shifted weight. Calculated trajectory and response without needing to try.
The broom slid into his hands. Familiar weight. Familiar reach.
First strike: the solar plexus. He felt ribs bend.
Second: a rising hook beneath the jaw, lifting the skull just slightly, just enough to dull thought.
The man grunted, dazed.
Third: a sweep low, guiding his balance into emptiness.
Then he pivoted.
The fourth strike cracked the clavicle. The sound was sharp. Final.
And yet the brute still moved.
Harry adjusted. Two steps left. Used a car bumper to redirect his stance. Slammed the heel of the broom down against the base of the neck.