(Leon POV)

  Smoke bled from the warehouse windows, thin and gray against the night. Leon crouched on a collapsed beam, fingers resting lightly against his hilt.

  Three inside. Carmilla. Flora. Binder. Two others moving like predators guarding a den.

  Binder won’t leave. Zealots never do.

  The other two? Easier.

  He shifted his heel just enough to crush a pebble beneath his boot.

  Crack.

  Silence inside.

  Then — a low growl. Rustfang. Heavy boots scraping against stone. And beneath it, faint whispers curling through the air like threads of smoke. Perception Veil.

  Perfect.

  They stepped into the alley together. Rustfang first, broad-shouldered, chipped gauntlets clenching with each step. Perception Veil followed, hood drawn low, edges dissolving like heat haze.

  Then Veil vanished completely.

  The whispers started instantly. Layered. Overlapping. Directionless.

  “Behind you.”

  “Left.”

  “Strike now.”

  Noise meant to split focus, flood instinct, make motion stumble.

  Leon steadied his breathing. Two targets. Kill the ghost first.

  Rustfang lunged without warning, gauntleted fist carving through the air. Too direct. Easy.

  Step back. Let it miss. Keep him close enough to pin but far enough to breathe.

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  The whispers tightened, curling sharper:

  “Duck.”

  “Block.”

  “Behind—”

  Useless. He ignored them. Pattern, not position. Find rhythm. Wait for sound.

  A hiss snapped him sideways. Rustfang’s swing scraped a wooden beam.

  The wood blackened instantly, splintering into dust where his fingertips grazed.

  Decay sigil. Confirmed. One touch and bone crumbles like stone left in rain.

  Leon’s knuckles brushed his hilt, loosening grip. Can’t clash. Must slip. Inferna’s form — thin, efficient steps. Flow around him, let him exhaust the kill-zone first.

  Rustfang’s chipped gauntlet cracked with the force of his next swing, fragments scattering. Beneath, raw corroded skin pulsed faintly, veins like rust eating flesh alive. He’s burning through himself. Sigil unstable. Advantage, but dangerous.

  Don’t give him skin.

  Perception Veil’s whispers deepened, weaving through Leon’s ears like oil on water.

  “Right knee.”

  “Turn.”

  “Draw.”

  Disrupting rhythm. Burying instinct beneath static. Clever.

  Leon narrowed his world to breath and blade. Shadows too soft, air too warm — Veil is somewhere close, using proximity to amplify distortion.

  A flicker on wet stone.

  A scrape no louder than cloth brushing brick.

  Step left. Pivot half. Draw edge.

  Slice.

  Perception Veil unraveled mid-motion, chest split open, distortion collapsing like smoke drowned by wind.

  The whispers died instantly.

  One down.

  Rustfang froze for half a heartbeat — then bellowed, tearing off his other gauntlet and throwing it aside. His bare hands, raw and corroded to the wrist, trembled as heat shimmered faintly around them.

  Anything he touched crumbled:

  ? A barrel dissolved into orange flakes.

  ? A crate imploded into powder.

  ? The stone railing cracked under his grip.

  He’s losing control. Dangerous. Faster.

  Leon slid his right foot half a length back, shoulders lowering, stance folding smaller. Breath slow. Blade light. Avoidance first, strike only when death guarantees itself.

  Rustfang roared again, wild, his arms tearing through the air like hammers meant to break walls instead of men.

  Step. Slip. Turn.

  Minimal motion. Maximum margin. Let him miss until his fury becomes blind.

  Rustfang lunged, both corroded hands outstretched, forcing Leon toward a collapsing wall. No exit left. Perfect.

  Leon feinted right, letting his weight carry just enough to bait pursuit.

  Rustfang overextended.

  Pivot low. Blade turns with breath. Edge slides between ribs like wind slipping past leaves.

  Thk.

  Rustfang froze mid-roar, eyes wide. One decaying fingertip grazed Leon’s cheek, leaving a faint burn before his body collapsed sideways, steam hissing faintly from his corroded skin.

  Silence returned.

  Leon crouched briefly, wiping his blade on Rustfang’s torn cloak, and picked up one chipped gauntlet by its strap. Light. Useless now.

  Smoke curled faintly from the warehouse windows above. Inside, Carmilla waited. Flora waited. Binder waited.

  Leon’s boots pressed against wet stone, each step silent.

  He approached the door without hesitation, pulse steady, breath measured.

  “Time to end this.”