The hooded man didn't retreat.
He stepped in.
Arjun barely caught the first strike on his elbow. The impact drove him sideways, shoulder slamming into the sedan. Metal shrieked. The car rocked, suspension crying out as if it were alive and afraid.
Too heavy, Arjun thought. And he's not even rushing.
He answered with a short hook to the ribs—clean, technical. The blow landed. He felt it connect.
The hooded figure didn't react.
A forearm smashed into Arjun's chest and lifted him off his feet. His back hit the car again, hard enough that the door caved inward. Glass exploded outward in a spray of dull stars.
Arjun sucked in air. Pain bloomed, deep and hot, spreading under his skin.
That wasn't anger, he realized. That was measurement.
He pushed forward anyway.
They collided again. Arjun slipped inside, drove a knee up, then an elbow toward the neck. The hooded man shifted just enough that it glanced off, then answered with a palm strike to Arjun's shoulder.
Something shifted inside him.
Not a break. Worse. A warning.
Arjun staggered back, boots skidding. He rolled with the momentum, slammed his fist into the hooded man's jaw.
This time, the man's head moved.
Just a little.
The hooded figure grabbed Arjun by the collar and walked him backward. Not dragged. Walked. Like Arjun weighed nothing.
They hit the wall of the warehouse. Concrete cracked. Dust rained down.
"You keep getting in the way," the hooded man said quietly, breath steady. "Why?"
Arjun coughed, forced a grin. "Someone's gotta stand between you and them."
The hooded man tightened his grip.
"Them?" he repeated. "They stand behind you."
He slammed Arjun into the wall again. The concrete fractured outward like ice.
"They let you bleed," the man continued. "They let your kind wait. Then they call it order."
Arjun swung blindly, fist crashing into the hooded man's ribs. This time, the man stepped back half a pace.
Arjun felt it—hope, sharp and stupid.
Then the counter came.
A straight punch. No wind-up. No drama.
It landed in Arjun's gut and folded him.
Air fled his lungs. His vision tunneled. His feet left the ground, body slamming into the car so hard the frame twisted sideways.
He slid down, boots scraping metal.
I lose, the thought came, clear and calm. If he wants it, I lose.
The hooded man raised his fist again.
Sirens cut through the night.
Sharp. Urgent.
The hooded figure froze. Listened. Then lowered his hand.
He turned away from Arjun and toward the official, who lay shaking near the wreck.
"Don't worry," the hooded man said evenly. "Warriors of law don't surving long.."
He stepped back into the shadows and was gone.
Arjun stayed where he was, chest heaving. Nothing bled—but his arms had already begun to swell, skin tight and angry, heat pooling beneath it.
He turned his head toward the official and laughed once, dry and breathless.
"Don't worry," Arjun said, voice rough with pain.
"Warrior of law."
Then he closed his eyes and let the sirens come.