The energy in Rahul's hand grows too fast to be a decorative threat.
For an instant I assume he's only trying to intimidate me. I've watched that man turn silence, money, position, and even courtesy into weapons before ever needing force. Rahul Sharma likes being in control enough that violence usually looks like a tool beneath him.
Then something crosses the space between us.
I don't see the whole shape until it's already closing around my neck.
Condensed OXI takes on a structure like a translucent hand, large enough to wrap my throat with room to spare. Five extensions close almost at once, and my feet leave the floor before I can even decide whether to react.
The pressure enters my windpipe.
I bring both hands to my neck out of pure reflex, but my fingers find only energy. There's no wrist to twist, no skin to grab, no joint to break. The harder I pull, the more the structure tightens against my throat.
Rahul stays on the other side of the desk.
