The warehouse shook beneath their fight.
The cracked floor had given way to dust and rubble, glowing lines of resonance etched across the broken concrete like battle scars. Shattered pipes hissed from above, and sunlight filtered in through shattered windows like bleeding gold.
Aemon's body screamed with every breath.
His teleportation—his only advantage—had grown sluggish. Each blink tore something inside him, as if his body couldn't keep up with what his resonance demanded. He had long since stopped thinking tactically. Now, he was fighting on instinct alone. Move, dodge, survive. His muscles felt like they were being ripped apart molecule by molecule.
Baz was still a storm of light. Controlled, yet wild. Brilliant, yet brutal. His limbs flickered in and out of visibility as he raced between walls and columns, throwing radiant strikes that shattered stone and shook the air.
But he wasn't untouched anymore.
Aemon had landed hits. Not many. But enough.
A gash bled just beneath Baz's right eye. His shirt was torn and darkened at the shoulder where Aemon had driven his elbow hard. His breathing had changed—not tired, exactly—but heavier. More deliberate.
And his smile was gone.
"You just don't stop, do you?" Baz asked, voice calm but tinged with disbelief. "You're running on fumes, kid."
Aemon blinked again—barely a step this time—and stumbled sideways, knees buckling. He crashed into a rusted metal beam and slid to his knees, trying to breathe.
Baz didn't strike.
He watched.
For a long second, the two of them just existed in the stillness, bodies flickering with the aftershocks of resonance.
Aemon coughed, wiping blood from his lip. "Why… are you hesitating?"
Baz's head tilted, eyes narrowing.
"…Because I don't know what you are anymore."
Aemon pushed himself to his feet, swaying. "I'm just someone trying not to die."
Baz gave a small laugh, but there was no amusement behind it. "No. You're more than that. You feel it, don't you?"
Aemon didn't answer. He couldn't put it into words. That strange pull between them. Like opposite poles drawn into orbit. Their powers—light and space—weren't just fighting. They were mirroring. Twisting around one another like twin stars on the edge of collapse.
Baz raised one hand. Light bloomed in his palm again, forming a blade-like shimmer that danced with heat.
"I've killed a lot of people, Blink. Resonants, humans, sector trash, enforcers. I don't hesitate. But you—" He stepped forward. "You're different. You shouldn't be standing. You shouldn't be alive. And yet…"
He closed the distance.
Aemon tried to blink away. Nothing happened.
He tried to lift his fists. His arms barely moved.
Baz raised his glowing hand.
Aemon didn't flinch.
He stared death in the eyes, bleeding, broken—but unyielding.
Baz's arm moved, slow at first. Then fast. The radiant punch came at blinding speed, enough force to cave in a wall.
And then—
It stopped.
Knuckles hovered inches from Aemon's face.
The warehouse fell dead silent.
The energy around Baz's fist pulsed violently, eager to release, begging to land. But his arm locked mid-strike, trembling with restraint. Light hissed from his fingers, dispersing into the air like smoke.
Aemon's breathing was a rasp. His legs buckled again, but he stayed standing.
Baz stared at him.
And then… he whispered, barely audible:
"…I can't kill you."
The words hit harder than any punch.
Aemon blinked in disbelief, chest heaving.
Baz slowly pulled back his arm. His glowing hand dimmed. The resonance in the air calmed slightly, like a wild beast retreating into its cage.
"I don't get it," Baz said softly. "This should've been easy."
Aemon collapsed to one knee, panting. "Then… why didn't you?"
Baz paced backward, running both hands through his hair, light flickering weakly around him now.
"Because," he said, more to himself than to Aemon, "some part of me thinks you're not supposed to die here. Not now. Not like this."
He turned and looked at Aemon again, this time not with anger—but with something close to awe.
"I've fought light-walkers, voidshapers, mist-skinners. I've been hunting people like you since I was fifteen. But none of them felt like this." He tapped his chest. "None of them echoed in my bones."
Aemon looked up. "You think this is fate again?"
Baz didn't smile, not this time.
"I think something bigger than us wants you alive."
He reached into his jacket and pulled something out. A small silver token, stamped with a spiral insignia. He crouched beside Aemon and dropped it onto the cracked floor.
Aemon stared at it, confused.
Baz nodded toward it. "That's my mark. Sector 3 recognizes it. You carry that, you won't get jumped next time you wander into the wrong street."
Aemon raised an eyebrow. "You think I'll come back?"
Baz stood. "I know you will."
The golden glow around his body reignited slightly, but it was calmer now. Like a low-burning ember rather than a wildfire.
Baz turned away, but hesitated at the door.
"You're not ready. Not even close. But you've got something in you—something raw. Wild. If you survive long enough to control it… we'll finish this."
He paused.
"And when we do… I want it to be real. Not survival. Competition."
Aemon leaned against the beam, trying to stay upright. "What if I don't want to fight you?"
Baz glanced back over his shoulder.
"You don't get to choose the tide, Blink. You just learn how to swim."
He stepped into the shadows of the doorway, sunlight catching the edge of his face.
A beat of silence.
Then:
"Rest up. The city's not done with you."
And just like that, he was gone.
Aemon sat alone in the echo of a war. His fingers curled around the token Baz had left behind, its metallic edges warm to the touch. He stared at it, and in its cold, spiral design, he felt the weight of something larger than himself.
Not a symbol of mercy.
A promise.
Not of safety.
But of continuation.
His resonance flickered inside him again, weak but still alive—like a faint heartbeat, waiting to rise.
He leaned his head back against the steel column, eyes half-lidded.
And for the first time since this all began, Aemon wasn't afraid of what was coming next.