John heard the screams before he saw the blood.

  He moved fast, cutting through the alleyways, his boots slamming against the pavement. The city was under attack. The Paragons were stretched thin. The cops were overwhelmed.

  That left him.

  He turned the corner and stepped into hell.

  Bodies were scattered across the street—some still, some twitching, others barely clinging to life. Pools of blood shimmered beneath broken streetlights. A few officers lay slumped over their squad cars, their weapons useless beside them.

  And at the center of it all, standing amongst the slaughter, Marrow smiled.

  John stopped dead in his tracks. His fingers clenched into fists.

  “I killed you.”

  Marrow grinned, tilting his head, his skeletal frame twisting unnaturally. Long, jagged bone blades protruded from his forearms, extending and retracting like a grotesque display of weaponry.

  “No,” he whispered, voice dry and rasping. “You left me to die. Big difference.”

  John's jaw tightened. The last time they fought, Marrow had pushed him to his limit—cut him deep, tried to carve him apart. John had beaten him bloody, left him broken and barely breathing in a pool of bone dust and blood.

  Now?

  He was back.

  Marrow let out a slow, pleased sigh. “This time, I’m cutting deeper.”

  John exhaled sharply. Then he moved.

  Marrow met him head-on.

  Blades grew mid-motion, shifting from his arms, shooting from his ribs.

  John dodged left—right—let one blade scrape across his arm, testing the pain.

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  It barely broke the skin.

  Marrow’s grin widened. “Ohhh,” he purred, watching the wound close almost instantly. “You’re tougher now.”

  John didn’t respond. He just swung.

  His fist smashed into Marrow’s jaw, snapping his head sideways.

  Crack.

  Marrow stumbled but didn’t fall. He chuckled, stretching his jaw as it clicked back into place.

  “You’re going to have to do better than that.”

  He slashed forward, a bone blade aimed for John’s throat.

  John ducked, twisting his body, his reflexes sharper than before. The cuts from his battle with Calloway had left their mark—not just scars, but resistance. His body had adapted, hardened.

  But Marrow was faster.

  A second blade shot from his ribs, slicing across John's side. Not deep, but enough to sting.

  John hissed through clenched teeth and drove his knee into Marrow’s gut.

  Marrow barely flinched. He grabbed John’s leg, spikes growing from his palm, and raked them across his thigh.

  John grunted in pain but didn’t stop. He slammed an elbow into Marrow’s face, then spun, catching him with a brutal hook to the temple.

  Crunch.

  Marrow reeled back, shaking his head. Blood dripped from his nose. He licked it away with a smirk.

  “I missed this.”

  John wiped his own blood from his lip. “I didn’t.”

  Marrow lunged and John braced himself.

  John barely had time to raise his arm before a fresh blade erupted from Marrow’s forearm, slashing forward in a rapid arc. He twisted at the last second, feeling the blade graze his ribs—shallow, but still painful.

  John caught Marrow’s wrist and yanked, throwing his other fist into the side of his jaw. Marrow barely staggered before retaliating, his knee slamming into John’s gut with unnatural force.

  John grunted, stumbling back, but not before he drove a stiff elbow into Marrow’s ribs, hearing something crack.

  Marrow let out a sharp breath and laughed. “You’re really making me work for this one,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders. His bones shifted audibly beneath his skin. “I think I like it.”

  John exhaled sharply, wiping a trickle of blood from his chin. “You talk too much.”

  Marrow smirked. Then he attacked again.

  A whirlwind of bone blades came at John from all angles.

  He blocked what he could, absorbed the glancing blows where he had resistance, but the speed, the unpredictability—it was overwhelming.

  A blade caught his shoulder, slicing deep.

  Another raked across his thigh, blood splattering onto the cracked pavement.

  Marrow didn’t slow down. He fought like an animal—wild, unrelenting.

  John grit his teeth, grabbing one of Marrow’s extended bones and snapping it clean in half.

  Marrow snarled. The bone regrew almost instantly, but John had already slammed a brutal right hook into his ribs.

  CRACK.

  Marrow doubled over for half a second, but lashed out with a knee that caught John under the chin.

  The world flashed white for a moment.

  John stumbled back, blinking the haze from his vision.

  Marrow wiped the blood from his lips, grinning through crimson-stained teeth.

  “You’re slowing down.”

  John steadied himself, rolling his shoulders. His body ached. He was bleeding from half a dozen new cuts.

  But he wasn’t breaking.

  “You’re healing slower,” John shot back. “What’s wrong? Feeling tired?”

  Marrow twitched.

  Then, without warning, he launched forward again, bone spikes shooting toward John’s throat.

  John dodged one, but another tore across his forearm, leaving a deep gash.

  Enough.

  John took a step forward and let the next strike hit him.

  Marrow’s blade drove into his side.

  He didn’t flinch.

  Marrow froze for half a second.

  Then John grabbed him by the throat.

  Marrow barely had time to react before John slammed him into the pavement—once, twice, three times.

  BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

  The concrete splintered.

  Marrow gasped for breath, bones shifting frantically to repair themselves.

  John didn’t give him time.

  He drove his fist straight into Marrow’s face.

  CRUNCH.

  Marrow lurched. His nose was smashed inward, blood pooling down his chin. His bones twitched, trying to reset.

  John didn’t let him.

  He grabbed Marrow by the collar, pulled him close, and spoke through gritted teeth.

  “You lose.”

  Then he drove his knee into Marrow’s sternum—shattering bone.

  Marrow let out a breathless wheeze, his eyes rolling back.

  His body twitched. Spasmed.

  Then he went limp.

  John let him fall, his own breath ragged. He stood over Marrow’s broken body, covered in blood, his arms aching from a hundred slashes.

  But he was still standing.

  And that meant he won.

  John staggered back, rubbing his bruised knuckles.

  Marrow was unconscious.

  The cops were dead.

  The civilians who had escaped wouldn’t be coming back.

  And John?

  He was still breathing.

  Barely.

  But it was enough.

  He turned his back on Marrow’s broken body and started walking.

  Tonight wasn’t over yet.

  This was going to be a long fight.