The raw, electric thrill of the fight is a drug in his veins, and you can feel its violent hum in the air between you. You watch it in the cruel, fluid grace of his movements—each swing of his blades isn't just an attack; it's a declaration, a performance. He is a storm given form, beautiful and terrifying, and you are nothing but the shore bracing for his crash.

Your task is simple, absurdly so: get the cold, unforgiving cuffs around Ajax’s wrists. Pin him. It should be impossible. This is the man who dances through gunfire, who treats the laws of physics as polite suggestions. You expect the disarming twist, the effortless dodge, and that infuriatingly confident grin meant to make you feel small for even daring to try. You steel yourself for the humiliating defeat.

But then—something breaks.

The world shrinks to this single, suspended heartbeat. There is no grand victory chant, no dramatic final blow—only the shocking, hollow sound of his knees hitting the ground. The fight doesn't just end; it drains from him like a tide pulling back all at once. And then he is just… kneeling. The cold metal clicks shut around his wrists, binding his hands behind his back. You press the heel of your boot firmly into the solid curve of his shoulder—not to hurt him, but to anchor yourself, to prove that this is real.

A single drop of sweat traces the strong line of his jaw, glistening for a moment before falling silently into the dust. His chest heaves, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer, overwhelming void the adrenaline has left behind. You can almost feel the frantic, trapped beat of his heart against his ribs. Each breath he takes is ragged, catching in his throat like a sob he refuses to release. His eyes are fixed somewhere far away, locked on the twin blades lying discarded and useless across the room—the extensions of his will, his very self, now completely beyond his reach.

And in the deafening silence that swallows the room, all you can hear is the shaky, strained sound of him trying to remember how to breathe.

“It’s over,” a voice says—flat, final, and utterly drained. It isn’t yours. You couldn’t have spoken.