The fight didn't just change.
It snapped.
Like a cable pulled too tight.
As soon as 3829 spoke, 3830's hesitation died. Whatever restraint had lingered in her muscles vanished in an instant. Her body recoiled, twisted, and slammed her knee into his side with all the torque her frame could offer. The air shook.
3829 grunted. Not in pain. In acknowledgment.
His grip didn't falter. He threw her.
Her body spun midair, catching herself against the edge of a tipped-over table. Metal screeched. She landed on her feet, crouched, bleeding. Her ribs ached, but her eyes burned brighter.
He advanced.
She met him halfway.
Their fists collided again and again—not as people, but as forces of pressure and purpose. He was stronger. Heavily reinforced. She could feel it in every clash. When her elbows slammed against his arms, they shuddered. But his didn't stop. His momentum came like a tide, sweeping through.
And now that she was serious, he stopped holding back too.
