"Who the hell are you?" Wolfen's voice was dangerously quiet, his golden eyes fixed on the woman before him. The wound in his stomach had already sealed, Umbralite and Pulse working together to erase the damage.
Scylla's face twisted—a mask of grief and rage and years of pent-up hatred. "Look at my face! You killed my sister, and now I'll kill you!"
Wolfen studied her for a long moment. The grief was real. The rage was real. He'd seen that look before—in mirrors, in the eyes of people he'd failed, in the faces of everyone he'd ever loved who had died while he kept going.
"So be it."
The words carried something Scylla hadn't expected. Not coldness. Not threat. Something older. Something that had accepted its own monstrosity long ago.
It sent a shiver down her spine.
Wolfen charged.
Scylla vanished—teleportation activating in that instant—and reappeared behind him, blade swinging.
He blocked without looking.
She teleported again, reappearing to his left. Attacked. Blocked.
Again. Right. Attacked. Blocked.
Faster and faster, she moved through space, appearing and disappearing in a blur of violence, each strike aimed at a different angle, a different opening.
Wolfen blocked them all.
Then he let one through.
Her blade connected with his face—a solid hit, drawing blood, splitting skin. But in that moment of contact, his hand shot up and grabbed her wrist.
She tried to teleport.
His grip was iron. She went nowhere.
Wolfen lifted her by that single arm and smashed her into the ground.
The impact cratered the sand. He did it again. And again. And again. Each slam sending shockwaves rippling through the beach, cracking the earth beneath them.
Scylla managed to teleport—just barely—appearing twenty feet away, gasping, bleeding.
Wolfen was already there.
His foot came down on hers, pinning her in place. His fist connected with her face. Once. Twice. Three times. He didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Each punch landed with the force of years, decades, centuries of violence that had nowhere else to go.
He grabbed her arm and ripped.
The sound was sickening—tendons tearing, bone snapping, flesh separating. Scylla screamed, a raw, animal sound that echoed across the beach.
Wolfen held her severed arm in his hand. The bone protruded from the flesh, jagged and white. He didn't throw it away. He used it.
He beat her with her own arm.
The bone slashed across her face, opened new wounds on her cheeks, her forehead, her already ruined nose. He drove it into her stomach, twisting, tearing. Blood sprayed in arcs, painting the sand, painting him.
He grabbed her by the hair.
And he slammed her into the ground.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The ground cracked beneath her. Blood pooled in the crater. Her face—once cold and beautiful—was now a ruin of flesh and exposed bone. One eye was swollen shut. The other streamed tears she couldn't control.
Wolfen stopped.
He stood over her, breathing hard, his own face already healing from the cut she'd given him. His hands were covered in her blood. His clothes were soaked with it.
Scylla lay in the crater, broken, crying, destroyed.
Wolfen looked down at her for a long moment. Something shifted in his golden eyes—not pity, exactly. Something closer to recognition.
"I'm giving you a third chance at life," he said quietly.
Scylla's one working eye stared up at him, uncomprehending.
"Forget about revenge. It'll get you killed." He straightened, turning away from her. "Go. Live somewhere. And if I see you again..." He paused. "I'll kill you."
He walked away, leaving her in the bloody crater, broken and alive.
Scylla watched him go.
She didn't move. Couldn't move. The hatred was still there, burning beneath the pain, but something else had joined it—something she didn't recognize.
Confusion. Fear. And the faintest, most fragile spark of something she'd thought long dead.
Hope.
Wolfen disappeared into the trees, following Zoey's path, leaving Scylla behind.
The beach was silent except for the waves and the sound of a woman crying.