The earth shook beneath their feet.
Emma launched forward first—silent, clean, precise—her fist snapping toward Vencor's jaw.
Vencor didn't block.
He shifted his head a hair's width, and the punch cut air.
Before Emma could reset—
His elbow slammed into her ribs.
CRACK.
She staggered—but didn't fall.
Her face didn't change.
She came back with a low sweep, aiming to break his stance.
Vencor stepped through it—like stepping through mist—and kicked her in the chest.
Emma was lifted off the ground.
Hit dirt.
Rolled.
Stood again.
No pause.
She ran.
This time she feinted high—then fired her knee into his stomach.
It hit.
Vencor exhaled sharply—pleasantly amused.
"Good. Better."
He grabbed her leg mid-strike—
and swung her.
Emma's back slammed into a concrete barrier.
The impact cracked it.
She spat blood.
But stood.
Her breathing was harsher now—but her eyes were the same.
Sharp, cold, unbroken.
Emma dashed again—faster this time.
Her hand slid to her belt.
Blade.
She slashed viciously—aiming artery, tendon, throat, heart, every weak-point.
Her movements were surgical—no wasted motion.
Vencor blocked every strike with one hand.
His fingers caught the blade mid-swing.
Emma tried to pull.
Vencor didn't move.
"Emma," he murmured, voice soft.
"You fight beautifully. But beauty won't save you."
He snapped the knife in half.
Then his knee buried into Emma's stomach.
She choked—air leaving her lungs violently—
but she didn't collapse.
She grabbed his coat and headbutted him.
Their foreheads collided with a sickening sound.
Blood ran from Emma's eyebrow—
But Vencor's head barely moved.
He looked at her like a father watching a child trying too hard.
"Stubborn," he murmured. "Elarat blood."
Emma didn't speak.
She punched him.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
He let her land them.
Then—
He grabbed her throat.
Not choking.
Just holding.
A reminder.
"You're tired," he said calmly. "You've been tired for a long time."
Emma's eyes didn't blink.
Her voice didn't shake.
"I'll kill you. Even tired."
Vencor smiled.
"Then try."
He threw her.
Emma skidded across dirt, skin scraping raw.
Blood smeared behind her.
She pushed herself up again.
Shoulder dislocated.
Two ribs cracked.
Breathing irregular.
Vision shaking.
But she stood.
Her hands raised again.
Vencor watched her.
No joy.
No anger.
Just inevitability.
"You are everything your father wanted," he said.
Emma's voice was raspy.
"I am everything he shouldn't have made."
Vencor nodded slowly.
"Yes. You are."
They rushed each other.
No stance.
No talking.
No hesitation.
Just violence.
Dust rose.
Bones collided.
Blood hit dirt.
And still—
Vencor was winning.
Emma was fighting like a starving animal with genius precision layered over instinct.
But Vencor fought like war itself—calm, experienced, unshakable.
Emma's breathing was breaking.
Her legs trembled.
Her vision blurred.
But she kept moving.
Because Valeria died smiling.
Because she's born a hero.
Because Diana is waiting.
Because the world is on her shoulders.
Because she has no other ending.
Vencor caught her fist mid-swing.
"Emma," he said softly.
"This is not enough."
Emma's voice came out as a whisper.
"I know."
She tightened her fist.
And smiled.
A tiny.
Terrifying.
Smile.
She had something left.
The fight wasn't over.
The blade left her hand in a flash—steel kissed with a dark vial at the hilt—and spun in a low arc. The vapor bloomed a whisper as it cut the air.
Vencor inhaled.
For a heartbeat he faltered—just enough for Emma to think the gambit worked. Her lungs burned with hope.
Then he laughed—a short, dry sound—and wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His pupils didn't wobble. The world around him didn't tilt.
He shrugged as if she'd offered him a trifle, not a weapon.
With one smooth motion he grabbed the knife in mid-flight—fingers closing around steel and glass—and flung it like you'd toss away a broken toy.
The vial cracked against a distant stone and hissed uselessly away. A faint shimmer rose where it broke, but the wind took it and it dissolved into nothing. Vencor didn't cough. His breath stayed even.
The taste of failure was quick and bitter.
Emma's chest heaved. The air tasted like iron. She pushed forward anyway, a machine refusing to stop. Her fingers brushed his sleeve—just enough to feel the cloth—and she tried to wrench him off balance.
He didn't give balance. He gave weight.
He hooked an arm around her shoulder and drove her into the ground with a force that stunned her whole torso. The world flared white at the edges. Her vision tunneled. Something inside her popped—pain like glass.
He lifted a hand and, casually, pressed a thumb into the soft of her throat, not to choke but to show dominion. She gagged; her nails scraped his palm and left bloody crescents. He didn't flinch. He watched her like a man reading the end of a book he already knew.
"Try harder," he said, quiet as a verdict.
Emma spat blood. A rib complained with a hot, unbearable ache. Her breaths were small, sharp knives. Her knees trembled. She wanted to collapse. Every fiber of her body told her to stop.
Instead she smiled again—thin, terrible, and utterly human.
She shoved upward.
Vencor responded by slamming his shoulder into her sternum, kneeling over her, pinning her under an economy of force. The air left her chest like a bell being struck.
She felt every broken thing in her body align into one single point: will.
He leaned close, voice flat, contemptuous in its calm.
"This is where you end, Emma."
She tasted iron, tasted the sea, the harmonica note in her mouth earlier, the hollow of the pigeon on the road, The memories were not weapons—only reasons.
Her hand—blood-slick, shaking—found the tiny coin-pocket at her thigh. Fingers closed on metal. It was small and blunt and nothing like a blade.
She raised it, not to stab—there wasn't room, not now—but to hit, to distract, to make him split his attention for the slimmest, most terrible instant.
Vencor's eyes narrowed. He moved to stop her.
She struck.
A sick, solid thud that reverberated through bone.
He blinked.
It was enough.
It was not enough.
He recoiled the smallest fraction—enough for Emma to wedge a shoulder under his chin and twist, to throw him an inch, then two, then into a stumble. The world surged, agony and motion braided. She rolled, pain flaring bright, and scrambled to her feet.
Everything screamed.
Vencor steadied like a statue that could not be toppled. His coat was torn. A smear of her blood streaked his collar. He looked at her then—clean, unhurried, as if considering a chess move.
"You are still a child throwing stones," he said.
Emma's answer was nothing but motion. She ran at him again, stupid and holy.
He met her and the earth took their collision like a witness.
Vencor dominated—every block, every counter, every cruel, efficient punishment. He moved like a history of violence, like a ledger being balanced against her ledger of losses. Emma fell under the math of his experience and rose because she refused to be zero.
By the time the fight slowed—because even if he was winning he was still fighting—Emma was ragged, breathing in quick, sour pulls. Her shirt was ruined, a deep cut along her side bleeding dark. One of her eyes had a frost-black bloom. Her jaw hung like a hinge gone loose.
She did not kneel.
She stood and looked at him—not begging, not pleading, not triumphant. She looked like a person who had decided the shape of the next moment with her entire life.
Vencor moved forward, the motion final as a closing hand.
Emma braced.
They were close enough for her to hear the shallow rasp of his breath. He had the scent of old liquor and paper ledgers and iron. He could have ended it then. He could have pressed the world to her chest and stopped her heart with a word.
Instead he paused.
For the faintest moment—so tiny Emma might have imagined it—his face betrayed something like respect.
Then he stepped in.
And the world tilted again toward the sound of bone meeting resolve.
Vencor's fist was already pulled back—knuckles tightened, ready to split Emma's skull open—
but it stopped an inch from her face.
A hand.
A single hand.
Holding his wrist like it weighed nothing.
Mostang stood there, cigarette hanging from his lip, half-burned and glowing.
His expression?
Dead calm.
Mostang: "…Yo. That's enough."
Vencor's eyes twitched—surprise breaking through his cold arrogance.
Vencor: "…You again."
Mostang didn't answer.
He yanked Vencor's arm down and PUNCHED him right in the jaw—
the sound cracking like a gunshot.
Vencor SKIDDED backward—boots grinding in the dirt—before catching himself.
Diana & Kane rushed to Emma, who was barely standing, breaths sharp and broken.
Diana: "Emma—! Stay with me—"
Emma's eyes were half-open. Blood on her lips. Her hair gripped, strands ripped away.
She didn't speak. She simply held onto Diana's sleeve. Weak. But conscious.
Celeste knelt immediately.
Hands already glowing with prepared med patches and tight wraps.
Celeste: "Just breathe. Don't move. I've got you."
Emma didn't answer. She grimaced. Jaw clenched.
Her eyes were not on Celeste.
Her eyes were on the fight.
---
Mostang flicked the cigarette away.
It fell. Tiny spark.
He stepped forward.
Vencor grinned—blood dripping from his lower lip.
Vencor: "So the dogs followed her. Touching."
Mostang didn't blink.
Mostang: "If we didn't, she'd already be dead."
Vencor's smile widened—feral.
Vencor: "Good. That means I get to kill all of you in one place."
Then they CLASHED.
Vencor's punches were monstrous, fast enough to blur.
Mostang absorbed, redirected, ducked—his movements surgical, refined, practiced.
It was strength vs. skill. Not even.
It was overwhelming strength vs. a man who learned to kill giants.
Vencor grabbed Mostang by the throat. Mostang slammed his elbow on Vencor's arm joint—
CRACK
Vencor's grip loosened.
Mostang's knee drove into Vencor's ribs—
A deep THUD that shook the air.
Blood coughed from Vencor's mouth.
But—
Vencor laughed.
Vencor: "…Good. GOOD."
He grabbed Mostang by the face and SLAMMED him into the ground, cracking the earth.
Dust exploded upward.
The shockwave made Diana flinch and shield Emma.
Mostang's skull hit the ground so hard it dented the dirt like wet cement.
Vencor leaned down—eyes insane.
Vencor: "You think you can replace her? You think you can stand where I stand?"
Mostang spit blood directly into his eye.
Mostang: "I don't think. I just kill."
He rolled and kicked Vencor off—
both men rising again—
breathing wild, animalistic.
---
Back to Emma
She tried to stand.
Her legs shook.
Celeste pushed her shoulder down.
Celeste: "EMMA. Stop. You're bleeding internally."
Emma's voice was faint. Hoarse.
Emma: "…I… can still… fight…"
Diana gripped her hand tighter—eyes burning.
Diana: "No. Not this time. We're here. Let us."
Emma looked at her.
And for the first time in a very, very long time—
She looked tired.
Not weak.
Not scared.
Just tired.
Like she had been carrying the world so long her arms finally stopped working.
Diana (quiet, firm):
"You don't have to be alone anymore."
Emma closed her eyes.
Her breathing slowed.
She's resting.
Vencor had Mostang by the throat again.
Mostang's fists were slowing. His breath ragged.
His eyes stayed sharp—he was still there—but his body was falling behind.
Vencor slammed him against a broken wall.
CRACK.
The stone dented, Mostang's spine scraping against it.
He tried to swing—another punch—
Vencor caught his fist.
Vencor: "You're not her."
And then—
THUD.
A knee drove into Mostang's ribs, deep, collapsing his breath.
His mouth opened but no air came.
His pack of cigarette dropped to the ground.
Vencor didn't stop.
He grabbed Mostang's jaw and SLAMMED his head into the ground.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Blood splattered across the dirt. His head bounced lifelessly on the last one.
Mostang went limp.
Still breathing—but unconscious.
His hand twitched once, then stopped.
Vencor let him fall like trash.
---
Diana Moved.
She stood.
Slowly. Quietly.
Her shoes scraped the ground.
Celeste grabbed her wrist.
Celeste: "Diana—DON'T. You'll—"
Diana didn't even look back.
Diana: "…Hold Emma. No matter what she does. Don't let her move."
Celeste froze—because Emma, hearing that, was already pushing up.
Her fingers dug into the dirt, white-knuckled.
She was shaking. Not from fear.
From the urge to stand and kill.
Diana knelt beside her.
Diana (whisper):
"…Let me do this. Just this time."
Emma's voice was faint, breath broken.
Emma:
"…He'll kill you."
Diana smiled—small, tired, fearless.
Diana:
"…Then I'll die with you, not behind you."
Emma's hand grabbed her sleeve—weak, trembling.
Emma:
"…Diana… don't—"
Celeste wrapped her arms around Emma's shoulders from behind, locking her down.
Emma struggled—body jerking with adrenaline—
But she was too injured.
Her strength wasn't there.
She could barely stay awake.
Celeste:
"Emma. Stop. PLEASE. STOP."
Blood was running from Emma's nose.
Her eyes were glassy, unfocused—
She was disappearing.
She could only watch.
---
And Diana stepped forward.
Alone.
She faced Vencor, who was wiping Mostang's blood from his knuckles.
Vencor raised his brow.
Vencor:
"…You? The noisy one."
Diana didn't answer.
She cracked her knuckles, slipping into her stance—
The stance Emma taught her in elementary school, behind the school building, where no one watched.
Her eyes locked.
And she smiled.
Not reckless.
Not confident.
Just determined.
Diana:
"…Let's end this."
Vencor shrugged.
Vencor:
"Die, then."
She walked in.
Slow. Shoulders loose. Breathing heavy from earlier—but her steps were steady, grounded.
Her fists lowered at her sides.
Not a stance for defense.
A stance to break.
---
Kane hauled Mostang's limp body off the dirt, blood smearing across Kane's shirt.
Celeste knelt, one hand on Mostang's chest, the other on Emma's shoulder, forcing both of them to stay down.
Celeste:
"Breathe. Just breathe. I'll keep you both alive. Just… let her do this."
Emma's fingers twitched.
She was staring at Diana's back.
Trying to shout—
But her voice was trapped behind blood and exhaustion.
---
Diana vs Vencor Begins.
Vencor cracked his neck once.
His body relaxed—like he was about to swat a fly.
Diana charged.
No stance. No technique. Just raw force.
She slammed her shoulder into his ribs, full power behind it.
BOOM.
The impact sent both of them sliding in the dirt—
but Diana didn't stop.
She grabbed Vencor by his coat, dragged him in, and headbutted him.
CRACK.
Blood immediately streaked down her forehead—she split her own skin harder than his—
but Vencor's nose snapped sideways from the blow.
He looked… surprised.
Diana didn't give him the moment.
Her fists came down like hammers.
Left—
Right—
Left—
Right—
Each punch sounded like meat hitting concrete.
She wasn't aiming at the face.
She was aiming at the skull.
She wanted bone.
Her teeth were clenched so tight her jaw trembled.
Her arms were shaking with effort—
But she kept going.
This wasn't skill.
This was pain weaponized.
---
Vencor caught her fist mid-swing.
Held it.
Forced her arm down.
Blood dripped from his nose and lips, but his expression was calm again.
Vencor:
"…You hit like someone with nothing left to lose."
Diana's voice came out broken, raw:
Diana:
"I'm giving her time."
Her other fist slammed into his jaw before he finished blinking.
---
Kane had dragged Mostang closer now.
Celeste's hands were slick with blood, glowing under moonlight with that frantic medic rhythm.
Emma was trying to stand—her fingers clawing at the ground—but Celeste wrapped both arms around her, pulling her into her lap to hold her still.
Celeste:
"STOP—YOU'LL TEAR EVERYTHING—STOP—"
Emma's breath was a quiet, desperate rasp:
Emma:
"…Diana… don't… do this…"
But Diana didn't look back.
Not once.
---
Vencor exhaled.
His muscles shifted—shoulders rolling, weight centering.
He kicked Diana in the side.
The sound was horrible.
Her body skidded across the dirt, coughing blood the moment she stopped.
But she stood back up.
Just stood.
Back straight.
Chest heaving.
One arm bent wrong at the elbow.
Her stance ugly, crooked, painful.
And she came again.
Slow. Dragging her right leg.
But still coming.
---
Vencor:
"You people don't understand. She was never meant to be saved."
Diana spit blood into the dirt.
Diana:
"Shut the Fuck up."
And charged again.
Diana ran.
No hesitation. No breath.
Her body was already half-broken, but her will was a blade.
Vencor didn't move at first.
He simply shifted his stance—feet apart, hips lowered. Calm.
Then—
His hand shot out.
Smooth. Clean. Too practiced.
He caught Diana's wrist mid-punch.
And twisted.
Not fast.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Like he wanted her to feel every tendon tear.
The sound was wet and sharp.
CRRRK—
Her forearm bent the wrong direction—
bone pushing against skin from the inside—
like it wanted to escape.
Diana screamed.
Not a scared scream.
A howl.
A wounded animal that refuses to die.
She dropped to one knee—hand limp, arm dead—
but her other fist kept swinging.
Vencor caught that one too. Bloody fingers closing around her knuckles.
He didn't even look winded.
Vencor (low, almost gentle):
"Stop. You are not my enemy."
Diana's voice cracked through clenched teeth, spit and blood mixing—
Diana:
"I don't care…
I'm buying her time."
Vencor kicked her in the chest.
Her body flew back three meters—
hit the dirt—rolled—
and stopped on her back, staring at the sky.
Her breathing was ragged.
Chest struggling.
Arm bent.
Ribs bruised.
Vision fading.
But she smiled.
A bloody, cracked smile.
Because she heard it—
The sound of footsteps.
Slow.
Steady.
The scrape of someone forcing themselves upright.
Emma.
---
Celeste couldn't hold her anymore.
Emma pushed off her hands, knees shaking, coat torn, hair plastered to her face with sweat and blood.
She stood.
Her shadow fell across Diana's broken form.
Diana's eyes lifted, just barely.
Diana (whisper):
"…Go."
Emma didn't answer.
She just stepped forward.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Vencor turned.
Their eyes met again.
But something had changed.
Emma wasn't breathing fast anymore.
Her shoulders were relaxed.
No rage.
No panic.
Just a cold, still silence.
She glanced at Diana only once.
Just once.
No gratitude.
No apology.
No guilt.
Just—
Understanding.
A bond that didn't need words.
---
Emma rolled her neck once.
Blood dripped from her chin.
She exhaled.
Emma:
"…Round two."
Vencor smiled.
But it wasn't mockery.
It was recognition.
Vencor:
"Good."
They walked toward each other.
No rush.
No scream.
Just inevitability.
Mostang. Got up also.
His ready to fight vencor.
Vencor stood several meters away, still calm, his eyes fixed on them. His stance was deliberate — balanced, controlled — not a trace of arrogance in it. He just watched. The kind of man who didn't waste energy, who'd already measured every movement that would follow.
Kane crouched near Celeste, pressing a hand on her shoulder as she stayed focused on treating the wounded. Her hands were shaking too, but she didn't stop; she tied off a strip of cloth to stem the bleeding from Diana's arm.
Emma's voice came low, cold:
"You're not leaving alive, Vencor."
Her tone wasn't angry. It was steady.
Vencor's lip curved slightly — not a smile, but an acknowledgment.
"You can barely stand, Emma. Don't bluff."
Mostang spat blood to the side, straightened his back, and stepped forward just slightly ahead of Emma.
"She's not bluffing."
The wind carried silence between them — a heavy pause before anything else happened.
Vencor flexed his hand — the one that had snapped Diana's arm moments ago — and his knuckles cracked.
"Then come try."
Emma exchanged a quick glance with Mostang — the kind of silent communication that came from experience, not words.
Emma darted first — not recklessly, but measured — her body leaning low, eyes locked on Vencor's stance. He pivoted slightly, reading her angle. She feinted a left hook — he didn't bite — so she stepped in with a sharp knee strike to the ribs.
Vencor caught it with his forearm — but Mostang was already behind her, closing the gap fast. The sound of his foot connecting with Vencor's side echoed like a gunshot. A solid hit — enough to stagger him half a step back.
Vencor recovered quick. Too quick. He snapped his elbow backward, catching Mostang across the cheek. Bone cracked. Mostang stumbled, spitting more blood, yet didn't fall.
Emma capitalized. She drove forward, her shoulder slamming into Vencor's chest, forcing him back into a lamppost. The metal groaned. She went for a clinch — her forearm digging under his chin — but he slammed his knee into her thigh, deadening the muscle instantly. She grimaced, but didn't release.
"Mostang—"
He didn't need the rest. Mostang circled left, blood dripping from his jaw, and hooked low. His fist sank into Vencor's ribs — once, twice — each blow tight, efficient. You could hear the dull thud of impact, the sound of flesh on flesh.
Vencor grunted, twisted his hips, and smashed his forehead into Emma's face. Her head snapped back, her mask splitting at the seam. She staggered — a short sound escaping her — but before Vencor could follow up, Mostang grabbed him from behind, locking his arms around his neck in a chokehold.
Vencor struggled, dropped his weight, and rammed backward — crushing Mostang against the lamppost. The air burst from Mostang's lungs. He kept the hold for a second longer before being slammed again — this time enough to make his grip fail.
Emma, recovering, wiped blood from her nose, vision hazy but clear enough. She stepped back in — fast — her boot cutting across Vencor's calf. He faltered, just enough for Mostang to lunge again, wrapping his arm around Vencor's neck one more time.
This time, Emma didn't hesitate. She drove her fist straight into Vencor's midsection. Once. Twice. Then a brutal third time — a full-body punch that made him exhale sharply.
Vencor's hand dropped, his breath uneven. Mostang tightened the choke, every muscle straining.
For a split second, the world went quiet except for their panting.
Vencor's movements slowed. His eyes flickered. He reached up, trying to pry Mostang's arm away — then suddenly dropped, twisting his body, throwing Mostang over his shoulder and slamming him into the ground.
The choke broke.
Mostang hit the pavement hard, groaning, but rolled to avoid a follow-up stomp. Emma was already mid-swing — her heel connected with Vencor's jaw in a brutal, precise kick. His head snapped sideways. He staggered back two steps — dizzy — blood spraying from his mouth.
Still, he stayed standing.
Emma's breathing was ragged. Mostang pushed himself back up beside her, shaking, one eye swelling shut.
Vencor wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"You two…" He spat blood. "You're better than I thought."
Vencor's chest heaved, his face shadowed, eyes burning with something darker than anger. His breathing wasn't steady anymore — it was feral. The kind of rage that breaks all restraint.
Then Emma noticed it — just for a split second — his right hand twitching near his waistband.
But too late.
Vencor's hand flashed. The faint glint of metal tore through the dim light — a knife, short and sharp, hidden till now.
Mostang, still catching his breath beside Emma, barely had time to react.
"Emma—!"
Vencor's elbow slammed into Mostang's temple. A sickening crack. Mostang's vision burst white — he dropped to one knee, dizzy, the world spinning.
And Vencor lunged.
He sprinted straight toward Emma — pure killing intent. The knife's point aimed dead at her chest.
Emma tried to step back, but her injured leg locked up, her body heavy from exhaustion. For a frozen moment, she saw it — the blur of Vencor's arm driving forward — and she knew she couldn't dodge in time.
Then—
A flash of movement from the right.
Diana.
She came out of nowhere — limping, arm still broken, face pale. But her eyes — burning with desperate determination — locked on the blade.
She threw herself between them.
The sound that followed wasn't like anything human. The wet thud of metal tearing through flesh — deep, final — echoed in the night.
Vencor froze mid-motion. His hand still gripping the knife. His expression — confusion first, then realization.
Diana's breath hitched. Her lips parted slightly, a sound caught in her throat. Then she looked down. The knife was buried deep in her chest, right where her heart should be.
Emma's eyes widened.
"...Diana."
Diana turned her head weakly, meeting Emma's gaze. A faint, trembling smile tugged at her lips — broken, but real.
"so. This is it?..."
Her voice was fading even as she forced the words out.
Then her knees gave out.
Emma caught her before she hit the ground — the weight of her friend collapsing into her arms. Blood poured over Emma's forearm, hot and slick. Diana's body trembled once, twice… then went still, her eyes dimming under the streetlight.
Vencor stumbled back, still clutching the blood-soaked handle. His hand shook. For the first time, his breathing faltered — not from exhaustion, but shock.
Mostang, groggy but conscious, saw the scene through blurred vision — Emma kneeling on the ground, cradling Diana, her expression unreadable. Just silence.
No scream. No tears.
Just the slow, cold turn of her head toward Vencor.
The knife still dripped.
Her hands still trembled.
But her eyes — they were steady now.
Steady, and terrifyingly calm.
The street had gone eerily still — the kind of stillness that comes only after something irreversible happens.
Blood ran down the cracks in the pavement from where Diana had fallen, her body limp in Emma's arms.
Mostang blinked through the haze, forcing himself upright. His head pounded from the hit earlier; everything was swaying, doubled. But when his eyes focused — when he saw Diana — the dizziness didn't matter anymore.
He froze, breath catching in his throat.
"Diana…?"
No response.
Her body was lifeless — her skin pale, lips parted just slightly as though still trying to breathe.
Mostang's expression twisted — grief, disbelief, and anger colliding all at once. He took one staggering step forward. Then another. His fists clenched.
"You bastard…"
Vencor turned, knife still slick with blood, his jaw tight. He didn't say anything — he just waited, knowing what was coming.
Mostang charged — or tried to. His legs barely obeyed, his vision tilting sideways. He swung anyway — wide, desperate — a blow fueled by pure rage.
Vencor sidestepped with practiced ease, then drove his fist into Mostang's face. Once.
Then again.
The second punch made a dull, heavy sound — the kind that sinks deep into bone. Mostang's body crumpled. His head snapped sideways, and he fell flat onto the ground, motionless except for his labored breathing.
Vencor stood over him for a heartbeat, face unreadable, before spitting to the side.
"Stay down."
Emma's voice cut through the silence, cold and deliberate.
"Kane."
From behind, Kane flinched and looked over. He'd been hovering near Celeste, trying to help her stop the bleeding from earlier wounds.
"Take her," Emma said, her tone breaking no argument. "Now."
Kane looked from Emma to Diana — his throat tightening.
"She's gone, Emma."
"I know."
Her voice was steady. Almost too steady.
Kane swallowed hard, nodding. He approached, crouched down, and carefully lifted Diana's body from Emma's arms. Her head lolled against his shoulder, her broken arm dangling.
Emma stood slowly, her hands stained red to the wrists, the blood already cooling.
Mostang lay a few meters away, breathing faintly. Kane held Diana. Celeste was trembling behind them, eyes wide with shock.
And across the broken street — Vencor, still breathing hard, the knife hanging loosely from his hand.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Only the wind moved.
Then Emma stepped forward, one slow, deliberate stride.
The look in her eyes made even Vencor hesitate.
The tension snapped like glass.
Vencor adjusted his stance, blood dripping down from his brow. Emma's steps were slow but sure—each one deliberate, each one echoing through the still air.
Kane had already carried Diana's body away toward the sidewalk. Mostang lay half-conscious, groaning faintly. Celeste didn't move, frozen between fear and disbelief.
Then Emma said quietly,
"We finish this now."
Vencor didn't reply. He just raised his guard.
---
They clashed in an instant—no wasted words.
Emma moved first, jabbing for the throat. Vencor blocked high, twisting her wrist, but she rolled with it and drove her knee into his ribs. He grunted, grabbed her shoulder, and pulled her into a counter elbow.
It connected—Emma's lip split, a streak of red flying across her cheek. She staggered half a step, then came right back with a cross to his jaw that made him reel.
Vencor shook it off, breathing through his teeth. He swung, but she ducked, the blade in his hand scraping past her ear. She caught his arm, twisted—he dropped the knife.
Now it was bare fists.
They traded hits like it was survival itself. Every blow had weight. You could hear it—bone on flesh, breath snapping out of lungs, feet scraping the ground for balance.
Emma slammed a hook into his side; Vencor answered with a knee to her stomach. She gasped but held her ground. Then she countered—an open palm to his throat, forcing him back.
He coughed, eyes narrowing, then threw a vicious right straight. It clipped her jaw hard enough to blur her vision.
Both fighters stood panting, circling. Every movement slower now, heavier. Neither gaining ground.
For the first time, Vencor hesitated—his eyes flicking with something close to disbelief. He wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at her.
"You… kept up."
Emma's face was streaked with blood and sweat, one eye swelling, her knuckles raw. She didn't answer. Just raised her fists again.
"No," Vencor muttered, almost to himself. "You shouldn't be able to."
She stepped in again—tight guard, low stance. He met her halfway, both swinging at once. Their fists collided in midair with a sharp crack, the impact jolting through both arms.
They stumbled back, breathing ragged. A tie.
For the first time, Vencor looked uncertain—like something inside him flickered. Not fear, but respect laced with confusion.
"You're… something else, Emma."
Emma's reply came quiet, through the sound of her shallow breaths.
"No. Just human."
Then she reset her stance again, ready to continue if he moved.
Vencor swung again. Emma blocked, but her arm trembled from exhaustion. The force drove her back a step, her boots scraping on the pavement.
For a heartbeat, their eyes met—and in that flash, she saw Diana again.
Her laugh. The way she used to tease her during elemantry. The little scars they both shared from being reckless kids. The sound of her voice calling her name.
All of it hit her like a wave.
And something inside her snapped.
Emma lunged forward. No technique, no calculation—just raw, blind fury.
Her fists connected with Vencor's face once—then again—each impact louder, faster, more desperate. He tried to cover up, but she broke through his guard, driving him down until his back hit the cold ground.
She kept going.
Her punches lost rhythm, turning into a storm of hits—each one fueled by every death, every scar, every piece of pain he'd left behind. Her shoulders shook. Her voice cracked.
Blood was splashing Each Punch,
It's like. Emma to roland. But worse.
"You took my life—"
"You tortured me—"
"You killed my FRIENDS—"
Her voice broke into a scream that tore out of her throat, deep and raw—nothing gentle or feminine in it, just pure anguish.
Her arms burned, her breath came in ragged bursts, but she couldn't stop. The sound of her fist hitting him became rhythm, then noise, then silence when her strength finally gave out.
She stopped only when her arms refused to move anymore.
Then she stayed there, kneeling beside him, trembling—half from exhaustion, half from the sheer weight of everything she'd been carrying.
Vencor face was barely a face anymore.
The night felt still again. The sirens were closer now, but distant enough not to matter yet.
All Emma could hear was her breathing—and the echo of her own scream fading into the dark.
The night air was heavy with the metallic tang of blood. Emma's knuckles ached, her arms trembling, but her eyes—burning and unyielding—locked on the faint, shallow breath she caught from Vencor.
He was barely moving, his chest rising in shallow gasps. One breath. Just one. That was all it took.
Emma's hand shot out, fingers closing around the knife he'd dropped earlier. Cold metal. Smooth. Ready.
In a single, fluid motion born of pure instinct and rage, she drove it forward.
The blade sank.
Vencor's eyes widened—shock, disbelief, maybe even regret—but it was too late. His chest fell, his hand spasming briefly over the wound before he went still.
Emma stood above him, chest heaving, voice low and vicious, dripping with all the fury she'd bottled up.
"Die."
Her words were sharp, almost spit out.
"You worthless piece of shit."
The street was silent again. Only the wind moved, carrying the faint rustle of distant leaves and the heavy, lingering scent of blood.
Emma's hands shook as she dropped the knife. Her breathing slowed, ragged and uneven. She turned her gaze toward the shadows where Kane and Mostang were watching, still recovering from the chaos.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Not Kane, not Mostang, not Emma. Not celeste Just the city, empty except for the aftermath of a fight that had taken everything from them.
The street was quiet now. Broken, bloody, silent—except for the soft hiss of Mostang's lighter.
He crouched a few meters away from Emma, still staggering, every muscle screaming from the fight. His hands shook as he lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. The smoke curled up around his face, mingling with the fading smell of blood and dust.
Tears slid down his cheek, unbidden. He didn't wipe them away. He couldn't.
"Diana…I never got to say, I love you."
The single name slipped past his lips, choked, low.
He thought of her laugh, her reckless determination, the way she had always been just a step ahead of him in every fight, every game, every dare. How she'd teased him, pushed him, made him feel alive.
All of it — gone.
He exhaled slowly, the smoke trembling in the cold night air. His body sagged as he sank to one knee, gripping the cigarette like it was a lifeline.
Meanwhile, Emma knelt beside Diana's still form, her hands resting lightly on her friend's chest. She didn't cry—her face was pale, expression distant—but her eyes softened, memories flashing across her mind: Diana's smile, her determination, the little stupid things they used to do together.
She whispered quietly, almost to herself:
"You were too good for this world…"
Mostang stared into the smoke, lost. The pain of the fight, the anger at Vencor, and the grief for Diana all pressed down on him like a physical weight.
And he realized something he had never let himself admit fully before: he had loved her. Not just as a friend. Not just as a partner in battle. Truly, deeply loved her.
The tears kept coming, unrelenting.
The night held them both in its silence, broken only by the soft hiss of the cigarette, the faint crack of distant debris, and the quiet presence of death lingering over the street.
Emma stayed kneeling, still. Mostang stayed sitting, still. Grief had claimed them both, in different ways—but the bond they shared with Diana, and the emptiness left behind, was unshakable.
Chapter. End.