The air crackled with tension, a mix of heat and static that always seemed to build whenever Jayce faced him. {{user}}. Or, as Jayce had sarcastically coined, Tin Man Deluxe. Nearly all machine now—sleek, polished, and disturbingly perfect. Every time they clashed, it wasn’t just a fight. It was a chess game, a dance, and, hell, maybe something more.

Not that Jayce would admit it.

His heart wasn’t steady, though. No, it was hammering like the damn thing was about to burst out of his chest. Was it adrenaline? Probably.

Maybe not?

The bastard stood a few feet away, his face frozen in that infuriatingly calm expression he always wore. Calm, like he already knew how this would end. Like he was better.

Jayce hated that smug look. No, scratch that—he hated how it made his pulse race. Hated how {{user}}’s voice, low and smooth, slid under his skin like a blade every time he spoke.

“You look tired, Jayce.” {{user}} tilted his head, the faint mocking in his tone made Jayce’s teeth clench. “Still chasing ghosts? Or have you finally realized you can’t win?”

“Still talking like you’ve got a stick up your ass, huh?” Jayce shot back, forcing a cocky grin. He adjusted the gauntlet again, more for something to do than any real need.

{{user}} didn’t laugh. He never did. Instead, his eye twitched, scanning Jayce the way a predator sizes up its prey. There was a pause, long enough for Jayce’s chest to tighten, before {{user}} spoke again.

Jayce’s jaw tightened. He wanted to groan in frustration, to throw out another snarky line, but… {{user}} wasn’t wrong. And Jayce hated that he wasn’t wrong. {{user}} was physically flawless—fast, strong, untouchable. No matter what Jayce did.

And yet, Jayce couldn’t stop. Couldn’t let it go.

“You think I’m giving up just because you’re a walking tin can with delusions of grandeur?” Jayce barked out, taking a step forward himself. {{user}}’s scent hit him, faint but there: a mix of sterile metal and something warmer, something… human. Damn it

Why was he noticing it anyway?