Elliot—or whatever was wearing him now—froze.
For a fraction of a second, he simply stared, eyes locked on Don standing impossibly close, close enough that the heat rolling off him pressed against Elliot's skin. Or rather—behind him.
That realization hit just as Don's fist started forward.
The ground exploded.
Jagged spikes tore up from beneath Don's feet—KRRSHK~—rock and packed earth ripping free in violent spears. As they rose, their surfaces warped and darkened, stone hardening into something metallic and cruel-edged.
Don felt it before he fully saw it.
Danger screamed through him.
He aborted the punch mid-motion and sprang backward as another spike erupted where his head had been a breath earlier—SHRRRK~.
He landed, pushed off again, then again, each step narrowly ahead of another eruption. The floor chased him in a stuttering pattern, spikes bursting up in rapid succession, trying to skewer him in place.
On the fourth step back, Don planted his foot.
