The equation had shifted.
Not enough. Not yet. But it had moved in a direction, and movement in a direction was something he could work with.
His hand went to the shard still embedded in his side.
This has to come out.
He pulled it — clean, without preparation, the specific brutality of someone who has learned that hesitation in this category of action costs more than it saves — and felt the wound's bleeding briefly intensify before Parasitic Regrowth responded to the changed conditions.
He held the six-inch fragment of ancient bone in his hand, looked at its sharp edge, and considered his options.
The woman at the front had not moved.
She was watching him.
The distraction had been the point.
