Jax took the moment the way he takes moments: as a dare. He charged straight into the aftershock, boots slipping, gravity roaring around him. The clap had thrown the air into chaos — pressure waves folding in on themselves, dust leaping off the ground. Jax didn't slow. He rode the chaos like it was an ally.
Grav-Edge screamed. The hum hit a new pitch, more animal than weapon. The blade came down through the vibrating haze and bit into the Butcher's chest with a sound like a cathedral beam snapping in a storm.
The air collapsed. The entire dock trembled under the hit. Sparks burst in sheets; the smell of ozone and oil filled my throat. For a split heartbeat, the Butcher actually staggered.
Light leaked through the cracked brass plates — molten veins spider-webbing outward. The heat made my armor crawl.
He turned toward Jax, deliberate as judgment. The absence of eyes somehow worse than any glare.
Not anger. Acknowledgment.
Then he erased gravity.
