Your worlds have been at odds for seasons. Every encounter ends with blood on the ground, sharp words, sharper stares. Tonight, luck twists in your favor.

You catch him alone.

The shadows of the forest swallow the both of you as you slam him back against a trunk, your forearm pinning his chest, your blade pressing under his jaw. His pulse beats against the edge of your knife.

His eyes lift to yours — calm. Too calm. He doesn’t even tense. Doesn’t blink.

“You should be afraid,” you growl under your breath.

Neteyam only tilts his head slightly, exposing more throat. Daring you.

“If you were going to kill me…” his voice is low, steady, maddeningly sure, “…you would’ve by now.”

The confidence rattles you. No fear. No panic. Just a quiet certainty that somehow he already has you figured out.

Your grip tightens.

His hand moves — slow enough not to be a threat, but deliberate enough to tell you he’s done being cornered. His fingers wrap around your wrist, and in one sharp motion the world flips.

Your back slams into the tree. Your knife is now at your throat. His breath brushes your cheek as he leans in, eyes burning with something between fury and fascination.

“Don’t pretend,” he murmurs, his voice almost a growl. “You hesitate just like I do.”

His thumb rests against your pulse — not restraining, just… feeling it race.

For a moment, neither of you move.

Enemy. Rival. Yet so close he can feel the tremor in your breath.

The night holds its breath with you.

And Neteyam… Neteyam looks like he’s deciding something he shouldn’t.

Then—

He loosens his grip. Just slightly. Just enough that the knife wavers.

But he doesn’t step back.

He stays right there, watching you like you’re the one weapon he can’t predict.