Hardy’s arms constricted around Pierre’s ribs like steel cables. The air rushed from Pierre’s lungs in a sharp wheeze, his feet dangling inches above the shattered cobblestones. The captain’s face lood close, sweat streaming down his weathered features, his breath hot against Pierre’s cheek, reeking of stale tobacco and rum.
"Feel that?" Hardy’s voice was a low growl, thick with satisfaction. "This is what real strength looks like. Not your little tricks and dodging. Raw. Power." His arms tightened further, the muscles in his forearms bulging beneath his weathered Navy uniform.
Pierre’s vision blurred at the edges, dark spots dancing before his eyes. His ribs creaked under the pressure, each heartbeat sending spikes of agony through his compressed chest like white-hot needles. The pipe hung loose in his grip, useless at this range—a pathetic piece of tal that might as well have been a child’s toy. Hardy’s prosthetic leg anchored them both, the tal joint hissing softly as it adjusted to support their combined weight.
Then Pierre felt it.
The hunger.
It started as a whisper in the back of his mind, a familiar itch beneath his skin that quickly grew into an insistent throb. The Essence Drain ability stirred, responding to the physical contact, to the life force pulsing just inches away. One touch. Just one touch and Pierre could drain the captain’s strength, turn that crushing grip into weakness, flip their positions in an instant.
Do it, the voice urged. He’s killing you. He’s hurt innocent people. He deserves it. Take his power.
Win.
Pierre’s fingers twitched involuntarily, his skin prickling. The ability called to him like a drug, promising relief from the pain, promising victory, promising dominance—everything he needed to survive this encounter. The temptation was a siren song in his blood, a sweet, insistent current that promised relief if he would only let it drag him under.
A flash of mory struck him with startling clarity. Diana’s face, twisted in that strange ecstasy as he drained her essence. The way her strength had flowed into him like liquid fire, filling him with exhilarating power, but there had been sothing else, sothing darker riding beneath the raw energy. Her emotions, her thoughts, fragnts of who she was bleeding into him—fear, confusion, violation. The mory left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Pierre’s eyes locked onto Hardy’s face, studying it with newfound intensity despite the pain. The captain’s expression was a mask of cruel joy, savoring Pierre’s suffering like a fine wine. There was sothing twisted in those eyes, sothing that fed on pain and fear—a darkness that had been cultivated over years of unchecked power. Pierre understood what would happen if he used Essence Drain on this man.
He would win. But he would drink from a poisoned well.
All of Hardy’s cruelty, his sadistic pleasure in dominating others, his fifteen years of accumulated hatred and bitterness—it would flow into Pierre along with the power. He would absorb not just Hardy’s strength, but his essence, his twisted nature. The corruption would seep into him, tainting his own spirit. He would beco the very thing he was fighting against, another link in the chain of violence and domination.
My fight, Pierre thought, his jaw clenching despite the crushing pressure. My strength. My rules. Not like this.
The hunger roared in his mind like a caged beast, demanding he take the easy path, the guaranteed victory. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he fought an internal battle more intense than the physical one. Pierre closed his eyes and let the ability fade, pushing it down into the depths of his consciousness where it belonged, feeling it retreat like a sullen tide.
"What’s wrong?" Hardy’s voice was mocking, delighted at Pierre’s apparent surrender. "Giving up already? I thought the Red-Haired nace was supposed to be dangerous. The stories must be exaggerated." He chuckled, the sound vibrating through Pierre’s compressed ribcage.
Pierre opened his eyes. The world had narrowed to this single mont—Hardy’s crushing grip, the scattered crowd watching in horrified fascination from doorways and alleyways, Raven sowhere in the chaos probably cursing his na and preparing to collect whatever Cori remained in his pockets after his death. His ribs scread, his lungs burned for air, but his mind was suddenly, brilliantly clear.
He stopped struggling.
Hardy’s eyebrows rose, surprise flickering across his weathered features. "Finally accepting your place? Good. Maybe I’ll make your death quick. A small rcy for providing with such entertainnt."
Pierre shifted his grip on the pipe, sliding his hand down to the very end with deliberate care. He wasn’t going to win this with supernatural power or stolen strength. He was going to win because he was smarter than this bastard—because while Hardy relied on brute force, Pierre had always survived through cleverness.
The pipe was short, maybe two feet long, but at this range it could still work. Not as a club—he didn’t have room to swing. As a lever.
Too focused on the kill, Hardy never felt it. A light touch, like a moth’s wing against his uniform. Pierre’s free hand traced the seam of the jacket, slid past the belt, and ghosted down his thigh. Then, his fingers brushed against cold, unforgiving tal
The joint where Hardy’s prosthetic connected to his thigh.
It was a complex piece of engineering—gears, pistons, and hydraulics working in harmony beneath the fabric—but like any machine, it had weak points. Vulnerable connections. Critical components exposed by necessity.
"You know what your problem is, Hardy?" Pierre’s voice was barely a whisper, forced out through compressed lungs, each word a victory against the crushing pressure.
"Enlighten ," Hardy sneered, tightening his grip further, seemingly amused by his prey’s final words.
Pierre hooked the curved end of his pipe behind the main support joint of the prosthetic. The tal caught on a protruding gear assembly, hidden beneath Hardy’s trouser leg but exposed just enough for Pierre’s purposes. A critical connection point where the chanical limb interfaced with the captain’s natural body. "You think strength is about how hard you can squeeze."
Hardy’s expression shifted, confusion flickering across his features as he sensed sothing was wrong. "What are you—"
Pierre pulled.
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