bottom al haitham

The two former brothers then charged towards each other and began their fight. Falco hurled punches with the skill of a trained boxer, every attack carrying the energy of a sledgehammer at full swing and relying on blocking with water for defense. Viktor replied with animal-like slashes, each finger capable of burning right through armor like it was cotton, and banking on his agility to avoid harm.

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!”

His wings were aching and threatening to snap, but he forced himself to his feet and returned to the sky. He took after Ingram, once again attacking him from behind. The two of them crashed atop the edge of the arena, overlooking the crowds. It was little more than a cement lip encircling the arena, offering some protection from the sun and the weather. The two got to their feet, both bruised and exhausted, with the spectators cheering as they spotted the combatants overhead.