Your blade hit the ground with a sharp clatter, too far, too fast. Before you could lunge for it, Seongje was already there—faster, sharper, crueler.

The cold kiss of his knife met your throat, precise and unshaking. You froze, chest rising against the edge of it as he leaned in, the scent of iron and rain thick between you.

“Try it,” you spat, defiant even with your pulse pressed against steel.

He didn’t flinch. His breath ghosted over your cheek as he leaned closer, too calm for someone with a weapon in hand.

“You always talk this much when you’re losing?” His voice was quiet. Mocking. Too damn close.