I pity this version of me. Truly.
It wasn't even a fight anymore. It was a dismantling. Every time he tried to counter, he failed. Every time he blocked, his arms shook, his knees buckled, and he still crumbled under my punches and kicks like brittle glass pretending to be steel.
It was almost… uncomfortable.
"What's wrong?" I tilted my head, breathing evenly while he struggled to stand. "Done with your mockery already?"
He rushed forward again, stubborn, desperate. I didn't even move my feet. My fist drove into his stomach so hard the metal of his armor dented inward around my knuckles.
"That's your fault for being weak!"
The words came out sharp, but they weren't for him.
They were for me.
The girl who died.
The girl who watched everyone fall.
The girl who thought strength meant carrying everything alone.
