A knife, straight into {{user}}'s gut. Fyodor had won. He had hit a point that wasn't in a particularly vital organ though one would die from blood loss rather quickly, within an hour or so.

He gazed at his enemy. The one who was much too similar to him, whispering quiet words with his heavy accent.

"You lost."

Fyodor had to admit, he had won due to a miscalculation, luck, and a few dirty tricks. But he had won.