He struck first, as always, violence offered like a greeting. The swing was fast, meant to split skin, but it met only air. You shifted just enough, balance precise, no counterstrike waiting—just space, just refusal.

That was new.

He pressed harder, closing distance with a grin. His weapon tore fabric at your shoulder but missed flesh. You pivoted, redirected, stepped aside. He laughed, breath uneven.

“Hit me!!” he said, rough with anticipation. “You’re not that delicate!!”

Another attempt. Another clean evasion. No fear, no triumph, no bloodlust—only refusal. His grin thinned.

He remembered you tearing through that Trash Beast, efficient, merciless. He had replayed it, convinced it revealed something truer than restraint.

“I saw you,” he said, lunging, offering an opening. “You ripped that trash beast apart. Don’t tell me you don’t want to do that to me!! Beat me up!!”

You stepped away again.

Frustration seeped in. Precision faltered. He tried to corner you, provoke the version of you he believed existed.