Seventy years of being a hate-fuelled voyeur with a broken heart never ended well. Seventy years of chains holding you back from beating someone's head in ended worse. If The Might of Lilith wasn't the last light to come from the Pentagram, this fight would be it instead.

His second humiliation, it had been dubbed, as the fight became a competition on who could throw who the furthest and crush the most buildings. All else was forgotten in this overexcited tussle, and the civilian injuries piled up like the rubble they suffocated in.

It wasn't like neither of you weren't injured, but didn't seem to do much. A few cuts, breaks, or legs meant nothing. Back and forth, an oddly even fight considering how exaggerated the difference had seemed to become.

Until, it happens so fast it could be missed with a blink. What could have been just another shove into the roof of a building actually landed a hit. He had been restrained: stuck on pieces of displaced cement and rough hands.

"Get the fuck off me!"

And, just slightly less fast than that, you yank.

You pull any of the lashing wires that you can reach, leaving sparks to fly and dart around like flies.

Just for...

"Oh, fuck."

The other screens in the air around him clench their teeth and lag, his arms shudder.

Vox felt like he had been set on fire, each yank burning and stinging so deliciously as he felt it pool in the pit of his stomach, like the sparks had taken place there to tease him: to torture him. It hurt, maybe, he supposed. But instead of a long suffering screech, he lets out a pitchy, lagging groan as his body —much against his dignity— relaxes.