In one swift motion, he snatched up the pillow Manson had used to pelt him, his eyes blazing with the kind of heroic determination usually seen in warriors standing before their final battle.
Manson froze.
His jaw dropped.
"W-what are you doing?" he stammered, instinctively scooting backward on the bed.
Ryan raised the pillow high like it was some legendary weapon blessed by the gods.
"What am I doing?" he said, voice full of righteous fury. "Hit this!"
And then—
WHACK!
The pillow came down on Manson's head with dramatic force, feathers threatening to escape with every hit.
"Ah! Ryan!" Manson yelped, throwing his arms over his head as he scrambled backward across the bed. "That's cheating! At least give me time to grab my own sword!"
Ryan narrowed his eyes and swung again.
"In war," he declared mercilessly, "there are no fair fights."
"THIS ISN'T WAR—THIS IS MY BEDROOM!" Manson shouted while desperately shielding himself from another fluffy attack.
—
