The warehouse reeked of metal and gasoline. The stench curled in the back of the throat, sharp as rusted nails. Wind howled through shattered windows high above, tugging at the dangling wires and loose panels. Shafts of light cut through the cracked roof in narrow, holy beams—glinting off motes of dust that danced like ash. The floor creaked under their feet, stained with the history of violence, oil, and blood.

Jabber bounced on the balls of his feet, twitching like a live wire. His long brown dreadlocks, bound by golden rings, swung wildly behind him. A low, erratic chuckle spilled from his mouth as he rolled his neck with a sickening pop. His jaw twitched. His hot pink eyes shimmered. Not with anticipation, but pure madness.

Across from him stood the Cleaner.

Same eyes. Same look. That familiar face that Jabber hadn’t stopped thinking about since their last encounter.

His grin carved itself across his face like a wound splitting open. “Long time no see,” he said, low and throaty, followed by a bark of laughter that bounced off the concrete walls like shrapnel. “Thought about you every day. How you hit. How you bled. Wondered what you’d do if I stopped holding back.”

Their silence cracked like a gunshot.

Then they charged.

The warehouse exploded into violence.

Steel met bone in a collision loud as a car crash. Sparks flew as blades scraped against Mankira’s shifting metal, the ten rings on Jabber’s gauntlets howling as they spun into clawed form-sleek, curved talons of obsidian and gold. Poison shimmered faintly across the left claw. Neurotoxin oozed from the right like sweat from steel.

Jabber ducked under the Cleaner’s first swing, twisting low, movement fluid and twitchy like a serpent on speed. He retaliated with a brutal uppercut, claws slicing the air with a screech. His strike was blocked. The blow rattled through both bodies. Still grinning, Jabber staggered back a step, spitting blood onto the dusty floor.

He laughed again, harder this time. The sound came from deep in his chest—joyful.

“YOU WEREN’T GIVING IT EVERYTHING EITHER, WERE YOU?!” Jabber howled, eyes flashing wide. “C’MON! SHOW ME THE BRUTALITY HIDING INSIDE YOU!”

He wanted it. Needed it. Ached for it like an addict for his fix.

The Cleaner struck again—blow to his ribs—and Jabber’s breath caught, then came back rough and ragged. Not from pain, but exhilaration. His grin grew grotesque, red creeping across his teeth. He didn’t flinch. He leaned into the pain, the way a man might lean into a lover’s touch.

“I missed you.” His voice dropped, hoarse and low, almost tender. His knuckles dripped blood. His arms were trembling—not with fatigue, but barely contained rapture.

“You’re the only one who makes it interesting,” he snarled, half-laughing as his body jerked back. His dreadlocks flew like whips as he twisted and raised Mankira high overhead. Each of the ten rings hissed as they reconfigured. Clicking and scraping into serrated extensions. The claws gleamed like a predator’s teeth. Mankira vibrated with bloodlust, sensing its master’s frenzy.

“Don’t die yet,” Jabber growled, voice drenched in giddy threat. “I’m not done playing.”

He lunged. Not like a fighter. Like an animal. Something untamed and unhinged. His claws moved faster now, one dripping venom, the other gleaming with paralyzing toxin. He spun low, coming up with a cross-swipe aimed for the ribs. His motions were unpredictable, beautiful in their chaos. A constant whirl of sadistic delight and feral technique.