My eyes tracked the movement. His hands were a blur of precise, lethal efficiency—blades opening throats in clean, economical arcs. His footwork carried the same familiar, almost casual rhythm I remembered from the Fallen City mission, long unkempt hair falling across most of his face. He dropped the copies one after another, still whistling, and then the whistle blossomed into a full song.
What the hell.
I watched Bagins' mouth form the words, his face draining of color as clones collapsed faster than the source could spit them out.
The smile stayed on my face. I knew exactly who had just entered the room.
Sophia Vale had introduced him as a level-four blade manifestor. The first time I saw him on the Fallen City mission I knew that was a lie. He moved through the infected like they were paper, singing the entire time as if the dead were an audience. The entire mission had been proof that nobody truly understood what he was.
