The wet, metallic scent of the backstreet pressed in on me as Evan's stomach wounds closed up. No glowing lights, no magic—just the sickening, physical reality of flesh weaving itself back together like a fast-forwarded video of a surgical stitch.
I spat a bit of blood onto the pavement and shifted my grip on Rebellion. My arms were heavy. Using a sword that big without some fancy internal engine meant every swing took a toll on my shoulders.
"Regeneration," I muttered, my voice raspy. "That's a hell of a gimmick. What, you got a Singularity tucked in your pocket, or are you just a freak of nature?"
Evan didn't answer with words. He adjusted his grip on that jagged blood-saw, his expensive suit now a shredded, crimson mess. He stepped forward, and I could hear the grit of the street under his expensive shoes.
He swung.
It wasn't a blur; it was a heavy, calculated strike. I didn't have any double-jump to bail me out. I had to plant my feet and take it. I brought Rebellion up, the flat of the blade catching the saw. The vibration rattled my teeth, the serrated teeth of his weapon grinding against my steel with a high-pitched scream.
"You're strong, Monsieur," Evan hissed, leaning into the blade. "But you breathe. You sweat. You tire."
"And you talk too much," I grunted.
I used his momentum against him, Redirecting the heavy saw to the side and stepping into his guard. I didn't have a 'dash' button, but I had five months of "don't-get-killed" training. I slammed my elbow into his jaw, following up with a brutal, grounded swing of Rebellion's hilt into his ribs.
Crack.
He stumbled, and I didn't give him a second to breathe. I pulled Ivory, my finger dancing on the trigger.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The recoil was real. Each shot kicked my wrist back, but I kept the grouping tight on his chest. He tumbled backward, more holes opening in his suit, his blood splashing the cobblestones. I didn't wait to see him heal. I sprinted forward not a teleport, just a desperate, heavy-footed run.
I swung Rebellion in a low, wide arc aimed at his legs. He hopped back, the tip of my blade catching the fabric of his trousers. As he landed, he swung the saw downward. I rolled hard feeling the rough stone scrape my shoulder as the saw slammed into the ground where my head had been a millisecond ago.
I came up from the roll, panting, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"What is this district?" I growled, wiping sweat from my eyes. "Rats eating people, cannibals in suits, and guys who won't stay dead."
"This is the heart of the City, Fixer," Evan said, his chest already smoothing over as the bullets were pushed out by his knitting flesh.
They clinked onto the ground like dropped coins. "Where the hungry come to feast."
"Well, I'm losing my appetite," I said, sliding a fresh magazine into Ivory. My hands were shaking slightly from the adrenaline and the weight of the steel. "Nannie didn't mention I'd be fighting a self-healing steakhouse."
I stood tall, trying to hide how much my lungs burned. I didn't have any "Styles" to switch between only my wits and the weight of my gear. I lowered my center of gravity, the long shadow of Rebellion stretching out behind me in the dim alley light.
"Let's see how many times I have to kill you before it sticks."