I moved.
Not a run. Not a leap. Something faster. Something that said fuck physics and made the world bend around me instead.
The marble floor vanished beneath my feet as I launched in a single, obscene surge. Thirty-two feet of empty air became irrelevant. Gravity whined like a child being ignored. For 0.3 seconds I was weightless, untouchable, a missile carved from rage and muscle memory older than this house.
My godly perception sharpened to razor-wire clarity: Lila's body tumbling in perfect slow-motion ballet. Her arc, her spin, the precise vector where our trajectories would kiss. Every detail burned into me—her arms flailing uselessly, fingers scraping at nothing but air and terror.
The white lace robe detonated open mid-fall, seams splitting with wet, ragged tears like flesh giving way.
