The next exchange ended quickly.
Not because it was decisive.
Because Ren understood, too late, that the fight had already been decided elsewhere.
The pressure returned, heavier this time, crushing against the sealed exits, forcing the garage's structure to compensate beyond its intended limits. Concrete cracked. Dust drifted down in slow sheets.
Ren moved anyway.
He lunged, blade driving toward the assassin's throat with perfect alignment. The strike would have killed any man standing there.
The blade stopped.
Not deflected.
Stopped.
The assassin's hand closed around the steel, bare fingers tightening until the metal screamed in protest. The dark blade slid forward in the same instant, slipping past Ren's guard as if it already knew where he would be.
Pain detonated through his chest.
Not sharp.
Final.
Ren gasped, breath tearing free as his legs buckled. The world tilted, lights smearing across his vision as he fell to one knee. Blood pooled beneath him, warm against cold concrete.
The assassin stepped back.
Respectful now.
"You were correct," it said. "About the system."
Ren forced himself upright, blade trembling but still in his grasp. His vision darkened at the edges, pulse roaring in his ears.
"Power," he said hoarsely, "always leaves fingerprints."
The figure paused.
Then inclined its head.
"Yes."
The pressure lifted.
The alarms died.
Silence rushed in to fill the space where resistance had been.
Ren's strength failed.
He fell.
The garage ceiling blurred above him, lights dimming as his breath came shallow and uneven. His thoughts scattered, then slowed, settling into strange clarity.
No regret.
Only understanding.
Influence demanded distance. Real power demanded payment.
He had always known that.
The cost, it seemed, was everything.
Darkness folded in.
The world went quiet.