But before it came down, a sharp twang split the air.
Then… thunk.
Z-34 screamed.
He dropped the sword instantly, clutching his hand as blood spurted between his fingers. An arrow had buried itself clean through the palm, the shaft still quivering from the force of impact. His voice came out a half growl, half cry as he stumbled back, face twisted in disbelief and fury.
Blood gushed freely, dripping from his wrist to his elbow.
"You little shit!" he roared.
His gaze whipped toward B-67. The boy stood frozen a few meters away, his crossbow still raised, trembling violently. His face had gone pale, eyes wide and wet, but he didn't lower the weapon. Not even as Z-34's glare cut through him like a knife.
Z-34 ripped the arrow halfway out before hissing in pain and stopping, blood dripping down his wrist. "You—fucking—brat! You shot me! You shot me, you piece of shit!"
