Noah's fists stayed raised, knuckles split and bleeding through gaps where his gauntlets used to be. His chest heaved with each breath, ribs screaming their protest.
Around him, the battlefield stretched in every direction—Eclipse forces locked in combat with Purge operatives, the distant roar of Nyx's fire, the crack of Storm's lightning. Their fight had carried them far from the facility's walls, out into open permafrost where nothing stood except two figures circling each other.
The Widow stood twenty feet away, examining her regenerated hand like she was checking her nails after a manicure. Blood—his blood—stained her knuckles, already drying in the arctic air.
