And for the first time in his life?—
Kenji is running.
Every step he takes leaves more blood behind, a dark, uneven trail marking his retreat. His sling lies abandoned among it, just another thing slipping from his grasp as his strength bleeds out with every heartbeat. By the time I reach the top of the landing, he’s slumped against the railing, chest heaving, his face pale beneath the blood and embedded glass.
I stoop and retrieve the leather sling.
It’s worn smooth with years of use, softened by habit, balanced perfectly in the hand.
This is the first weapon he ever trusted me with.
I remember the weight of it then. How proud I was when he finally nodded and said my name like I’d earned it.
I tuck it into my pocket beside the single blue marble already waiting there—the one I found on the stage after Hartley died screaming. Just like the ones I’ve watched Kenji wield with merciless precision for half my life.
Funny how tools outlive the men who believe they own them.
I advance again, steady, and unhurried, forcing him backone step at a time. There’s nowhere left for him to go, and he knows it.
“Men like you never learn,” I say quietly. “You build the world to suit yourselves, then act offended when it finally refuses to hold you.”
He snarls something unintelligible and lunges, desperation shredding whatever discipline he has left. At this point, I’m running on nothing but pure spite.
I meet him head-on, driving the heel of my hand into his face with everything I have. Bone crunches under the impact, his head snapping back as I follow through, shoulder-checking him with ruthless intent.
Kenji goes over the balcony railing.
He hits an upholstered armchair on the floor below in a slow, surreal collapse—fabric tearing, wood splintering—before spilling onto the tile in a heap. His leg bends at a wrong angle. For a long, suspended moment, he doesn’t move at all.
Then finally, he does.
Crawling. Dragging himself forward with shaking arms. Pushing, grunting, trying to stand on a body that’s finally betraying him.
I watch him for a second longer than necessary before I turn and descend the stairs.
By the time I reach the bottom, he’s upright again—barely. One leg useless. One wrist hanging crooked and discolored. Blood runs freely from his mouth and side as he hauls himself toward the shattered glass doors he threw me through not long ago.
He keeps looking back at me.
Checking to see if I’m coming.
I stop, drawing the sling from my pocket and take the marble between my fingers, feeling its weight, its promise. I load it carefully, watching him drag himself a few more feet across the floor. I’m not giving him mercy.
I’m giving myself space.
When the distance is right, I call his name.
“Kenji?”
He freezes.
Turns.
Blood spills from his mouth in a steady stream, dripping onto the tile. Glass has torn the skin around his eyes, leaving them red and raw, fury and disbelief flickering together there. His chest rises and falls in ragged pulls, his hands trembling as his strength finally gives out.
I don’t do this for closure. I do it because he taught me never to leave a threat breathing.
“Goodbye,” I say.
