The air at the port reeked of salt, oil, and blood. Smoke swirled in broken spirals, dancing with the flickering lights of burning crates and shattered streetlamps.
And at the centre of it all, chaos.
Boom!
A shockwave rippled through the docks as Nadya hurled another explosive orb with pinpoint accuracy. The detonation lit up the area, the orange glare reflecting off warped metal and splintered wood.
But the Scalpel emerged from the blast, untouched.
At least on the surface.
His long coat fluttered around him like the robes of an executioner, and his skin, though torn and lacerated moments ago, was slowly weaving itself back together. Threads of muscle tightened, skin sealed, bones snapped back into place with unsettling cracks.
But something was… off.
His movements had lost their silky grace. They were slower. Less precise. And his breath was ragged.
He wasn't healing. Not truly.
