Maggie's blows came one after another, over and over.
Her breath was rhythmic, mechanical. Her gaze fixed on the thing Dylan had become—this walking abyss. She struck to slow him, to break him—not his body, knowing it would never stay broken—but whatever still passed for his mind.
"Oh, Dylan… as if your mere existence wasn't already annoying enough," she growled through clenched teeth. "And now you've got a power that makes it even worse."
She swung again, diagonally, aiming for his knee joint. The blade bit into flesh, bone, for the span of a blink—then the tissue closed, restored, smooth, as if mocking her.
And for the briefest moment…
She saw him stagger.
Just a second. A breath. An echo.
A flicker in his blackened pupils.
As if Dylan—the real one, the original—had reached out from within. A silent whisper, like the tiniest crack.
But then he snarled again, louder this time.
A gut-wrenched scream. Something primal and sick.
