Vasiliev's eyes darted through the darkness, his grip tightening around his knife. He turned slowly, listening, his body coiled like a spring ready to explode. The hunter had become the hunted, and he knew it. Every instinct in his body screamed for control, but he could feel the battle slipping from his grasp. His breath was steady, but his mind was racing. Where would the next attack come from?
A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, the cool night air chilling his skin. The wind howled through the steel beams, creating an eerie chorus that masked movement. It was the perfect environment for someone like Alexander—someone who thrived in the unseen.
Alexander circled him silently, moving between the steel beams like a wraith. His system-enhanced agility made his steps near soundless, blending seamlessly with the surrounding shadows. He could feel Vasiliev's tension, the way his muscles flexed as he tried to pinpoint Alexander's position. But the Butcher was reacting now, not dictating the fight. That was the difference.
A sharp breath. A slight shift of weight. Vasiliev was preparing to strike. Alexander saw it before it happened. His eyes caught the minute movement in Vasiliev's posture—the tightening of his calf muscles, the rotation of his shoulder, the way his grip subtly adjusted on the knife. He was going to lunge.
Alexander lunged first.
His first attack was brutal—his blade slicing down toward Vasiliev's exposed shoulder. The Butcher twisted just in time, the knife cutting through the fabric of his jacket instead of flesh. Alexander's foot connected with his opponent's ribs, sending Vasiliev stumbling back, but the Russian recovered instantly, retaliating with a sweeping slash aimed at Alexander's midsection. The blade barely missed its mark, the whisper of steel slicing through the air as Alexander ducked and rolled to the side, vanishing into the shadows once more.
Vasiliev's frustration was evident in the way his breathing became more controlled, more forced. He was adjusting. Alexander had to press the advantage. He couldn't allow the Butcher to regain momentum.
A steel pipe lay near Vasiliev's feet. With a flick of his wrist, Alexander sent it rolling across the ground, the sudden noise shattering the silence. The distraction worked—Vasiliev turned his head for a split second.
Alexander struck.
Emerging from the dark like a phantom, he slammed the hilt of his knife into the base of Vasiliev's skull. The Butcher grunted, staggering forward, but he wasn't finished. With inhuman reflexes, he spun on his heel and slashed upward, narrowly missing Alexander's throat. The near-miss sent a shiver down Alexander's spine. A fraction slower, and it would have been over.
The fight was reaching its peak. Both men were breathing heavily, their bodies bruised, blood staining the ground beneath them. But Alexander wasn't done yet. He wasn't finished until Vasiliev stayed down.
He stepped back into the shadows, his voice a whisper carried by the wind. "You're slowing down, Butcher."
Vasiliev wiped the blood from his mouth and chuckled darkly. "You think so?" His voice was hoarse but steady, a smirk playing at his lips. He had been pushed harder than he expected, but there was no fear in his eyes—only calculation. The look of a man still assessing his prey, still confident he could rip it apart when the time came.
With a sudden burst of speed, Vasiliev charged—not recklessly, but with terrifying precision. He had adapted. He no longer chased Alexander's shadows. Now, he forced him into the light. His footwork changed, his movements closing off Alexander's angles of retreat. He was no longer defending; he was controlling the battlefield.
Alexander had underestimated him.
A gunshot rang out.
Pain seared through his side as the bullet grazed his ribs, the heat of it like fire against his skin. He had barely dodged in time. Vasiliev had switched tactics, abandoning the knife in favor of a firearm. Alexander rolled behind a steel pillar, pressing a hand to his side. The wound wasn't deep, but it was enough to slow him down. A trickle of blood seeped through his fingers, staining his tactical gear. He could feel his pulse hammering, the wound dull but persistent.
Vasiliev lowered his pistol slightly, his smirk widening. "Did you really think I wouldn't come prepared?"
Alexander clenched his jaw, his mind racing. The game had changed again. The Butcher wasn't just an assassin; he was a tactician. He had let Alexander dictate the battle, letting him believe he had the upper hand, only to force him into a situation where he could strike with overwhelming force. It wasn't brute strength that made Vasiliev dangerous—it was his mind. He adapted, he calculated, and he dismantled his enemies piece by piece.
Alexander exhaled sharply, ignoring the pain. He still had one advantage left.
Shadows flickered around him, shifting unnaturally. His power surged, feeding off his will. He had fought this battle as a man, but now, it was time to remind Vasiliev what he truly was.
A gust of wind swept through the open structure, carrying with it a chilling presence. The air thickened, dark tendrils slithering across the concrete floor like living entities. The temperature seemed to drop, and for the first time, Vasiliev's confident smirk faded.
Alexander stepped forward, his eyes glowing with an eerie violet hue.
The real fight was about to begin.
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