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He gave the man a hard poke in the chest while smoke wafted from the cigarette between his fingers, then leaned in with bloodlust radiating from every word hissed with his icy voice. “Notice that I haven’t asked your name yet, even though I gave you mine? It’s because you don’t have a name to me. To me, you’re just ‘Bitch’, the sniveling little Bitch who decided to come in here and ruin my evening, talking awfully big game for someone in skull-fucking range. That’s what’ll be engraved on your tombstone: ‘Here lies Bitch. Cause of death: got skull-fucked until his brains leaked out of his ears.’ Shit, I’ll carve the engraving myself. Now I suggest you get the fuck out before I use your eye sockets like a whore’s ass!”

With his superior speed, Roc eventually got the drop on Ingram, attacking from above. His hit landed, but Ingram twisted in the air and kicked Roc in the gut. Roc lost his balance in the air and hit the ground, rolling over a hundred feet across the rough street. Thinking he had seized victory, Ingram turned and flew back to the arena, but Roc, although spitting up blood and covered in bruises, wasn’t ready to quit yet.

Down below, he heard a knock on the front door, and Shannon answered. The brief moment of distraction snapped his clone back as if it had been yanked with a tether. Once again, he was left gasping for air and dripping sweat. He deactivated his magic and ripped off his headband, immediately sighing in relief. That sensation alone was worth the stress of training, as if slipping into a hot bath.