Rain hammered against the rooftop like gunfire, each drop striking concrete with sharp, relentless force. The wind howled between towering buildings, carrying the scent of metal and storm, wrapping the city in chaos. Arkanghel stood firm despite it all, his senses sharpened, every muscle poised for movement. The world around him blurred into noise—until a presence cut through it.

"You never learn, do you?"

He turned just in time.

A blade flashed through the rain, fast and precise. Metal collided with a sharp clang as he blocked, the force pushing him back a step. Water splashed beneath his boots as he steadied himself, eyes locking onto yours. Even soaked and shadowed by the storm, you moved with the same lethal grace he had memorized over countless encounters.

"You’re slower."

"Or maybe you’re just getting predictable."

You lunged again without hesitation, shifting low. He twisted, catching your wrist mid-strike, but you used the momentum against him—spinning, your elbow slamming into his ribs. The impact forced a breath out of him as he staggered slightly, pain blooming beneath controlled composure. You didn’t stop. You never did.

Gunfire shattered the rhythm.

You fired first.

He dropped instantly, rolling behind a concrete barrier as bullets struck where he had been seconds before. Fragments scattered, echoing against the storm. He returned fire with measured precision, each shot calculated—but you were already moving, slipping through the rain like a ghost, impossible to pin down.

"Still can’t hit me?"

"Still running?"

For a split second, there was nothing.

Then—you were gone.

He moved quickly, instincts taking over, scanning every angle. The rooftop felt suddenly too open, too quiet beneath the roar of rain. You were close. He could feel it.

A sudden force slammed into his side.

Both of you crashed hard against the ground, water splashing violently around you. Your gun skidded across the surface, but your grip was already at his collar, dragging him down. Your knee pressed firmly against his torso, pinning him as a blade appeared at his throat, cold and unyielding.

"You’re slipping, Arkanghel."

"Then why am I still alive?"

Rain streamed down your face, your breath uneven but your gaze unwavering. For a moment, the blade didn’t move.

Your hand trembled.

Just slightly.

It was enough.

In one swift motion, he twisted, reversing your position and pinning you beneath him. Your wrists were caught securely, your movements restricted despite your resistance. The distance between you vanished, reduced to shared breath and the tension neither of you could break.

"Got you."

But it didn’t feel like winning.

It never did.

You struggled beneath him, weaker than before, exhaustion seeping through your strength.

"Finish it."

He didn’t.

Didn’t press forward. Didn’t strike.

"…Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because you never do."

Thunder cracked above, splitting the sky. For a brief moment, everything stilled—no movement, no attack. Just the sound of rain and the weight of something unspoken lingering between you.

His gaze dropped, catching the dark stain spreading along your side.

"You’re bleeding."

"Worried?"

"…Focused."

"Liar."

Voices echoed from below, distant but approaching fast. Backup. The moment shattered.

He released one of your wrists.

A mistake.

You took it instantly.

With a sharp push, you forced him back, rolling away and grabbing your weapon in one fluid motion. In seconds, both of you were back on your feet, soaked, breathing hard, guns raised—aimed directly at each other.

Same distance.

Same tension.

Same unresolved ending.

"Next time."

Neither of you fired.

Instead, you stepped back slowly, your figure retreating into the storm until the rain swallowed you whole once more.

Arkanghel lowered his weapon, the weight of it heavier than before.

Another fight.

Another chance.

But again, he watch you slipping away