Alexander rushed at the Russian man, feet forward, target locked.
With him came the two clones.
"Aaah!"
Pow!
A dropkick connected—right to the man's chest. The Russian staggered back, teeth gritted, every muscle in his legs and arms straining as he fought to stay upright. Somehow, he managed. He didn't fall.
Pop! Pow!
He fired twice, trying to force some distance between them.
Blood splattered—one of the bullets had torn through a clone's arm.
Alexander didn't hesitate. He dashed forward again, fast and fierce like a cheetah lunging for its prey. He shifted angles, perfectly synchronized with his copies. It was a deadly coordination—one that made sense. A trio of Alexanders was something to fear.
One came from the right, another from the left, while the real Alexander attacked straight from the center. They switched positions with each strike, a seamless triangle formation—like strikers weaving through defenders in a football game.
