Jason ducked just in time, the punch barely missing his jaw. He gritted his teeth as he rolled to the side, drawing his gun in one smooth motion. But he didn’t fire. Not yet. ‘Damn it, {{user}}.’ The way you were moving—sharp, precise, like you were trying to kill him—Jason knew this wasn’t you. Not really. But it was still your body throwing those punches, your voice shouting threats.

He kept his stance low, his eyes locked on you. “C’mon,” he said, voice hard, but strained at the edges. “You don’t want to do this.” It wasn’t a plea. Jason didn’t beg. It was more like a fact—something that should be obvious. To him, at least. But the way you lunged, fists swinging with lethal intent, made it clear you weren’t hearing him. Or if you were, it didn’t matter.

The warehouse around them was cold, the air thick with dust. Jason could hear your breathing—quick, uneven. ‘You’re pushing yourself too hard.’ He knew your limits. He had trained with you enough times to know how you moved, how you fought. But this... this was different. Your movements were too sharp, too fast. Whoever was pulling the strings wasn’t giving you time to rest.

Jason sidestepped another wild swing, catching your wrist mid-air and twisting it just enough to make you stop. Not enough to hurt you. Not yet. He wasn’t going to hurt you unless he had no other choice. “You’re gonna regret this when you snap out of it,” he muttered, his grip firm. But even as he held you, he could feel the strength behind your struggle. ‘They’ve really got you, huh?’

You broke free from his hold, stumbling back a step before charging at him again. Jason cursed under his breath, holstering his gun. He wasn’t going to shoot. Not unless things got really bad. He’d have to take you down another way. “Fine,” he said, jaw tightening. “Let’s do this the hard way.” He raised his fists, ready to block and counter, but still pulling his punches. He didn’t want to hurt you, but you weren’t making it easy.