I don't even get a second to process the pain in my leg, because the world explodes around me in a series of movements and sounds. My vision blurs momentarily, but the blood thrumming through my veins, the intoxicating cocktail of danger and adrenaline, sharpens everything in its raw clarity.

As my leg buckles, Mr. Nothing lunges towards me, his fist balled, aiming for my face. It's almost like one of those slow-motion movie moments. I can see the pores of his skin, the raw power in his posture. But the floor beneath him trembles, shifting and turning into that cold, treacherous semi-solid. It's Mudslide's doing, that much is clear. But in his efforts to catch me, he's inadvertently sabotaging his own teammate. Mr. Nothing's foot sinks a little, throwing him off balance, his punch veering wildly off its target. It grazes my shoulder instead, still enough to jolt me, but not the direct hit he intended.

"Dammit, Mudslide!" Mr. Nothing curses, trying to pull his leg free. I get my wits about me enough to scramble backward, feeling the slight give of the muddy ground beneath my hands. "Control your powers!"

Just a few feet away, a scuffle breaks out between Jordan and Mr. Polygraph. The latter is bigger, heavier, and clearly more experienced in hand-to-hand combat, but Jordan's unpredictable spatial abilities, and my little makeshift javelin, give them the edge. As Mr. Polygraph lunges, Jordan stretches the space, making him miss. But it's a constant tug of war. Mr. Polygraph uses his longer armspan, attempting to grapple Jordan, throw them off balance. Several times, I catch glimpses of Jordan trying to jab their makeshift spear into him, but he's just too fast, too agile. Yet, for every move he makes, Jordan's counter is just as quick.

Clearly, Jordan's been training since our first fight. I feel the weirdest tingle of pride.

The ashen cloud, the residue of Jordan's powers breaking down on contact, is a tangible entity around us, concealing our movements and masking our intentions. With each heartbeat and echo of pain from my fresh wounds, I can sense the flow of blood around us, from every source. It's a surreal experience, feeling the pulse of the two criminals, understanding their positions, their approaching movements. But it's not enough to give me a full upper hand. Being able to see the two of them, to sense them, doesn't mean my reactions are fast enough to avoid them.

Mudslide seems to be getting desperate, or maybe just more enraged. His powers act without precision. One moment the ground solidifies, and the next, it's a viscous trap. But it's not just me who's affected. Mr. Nothing struggles, cursing with every misstep, until he lets out a delightfully loud "Fuck!" and yanks his boots and socks off.

Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, I rush him, or at least try to. My injured leg doesn't carry my weight as it should, causing me to stagger more than run. Still, I manage to get close, biting down on his arm. The taste of iron and salt fills my mouth in an instant and I feel my nostrils flare. He lets out a scream, trying to pull away, but my teeth sink in deeper. I try to bite down harder, to reach bone and break it, feeling instinct driving my actions.

I am not a monkey. I am not an ape. I am a shark, devouring.

"Get off!" He roars, pulling his arm back with such force that I'm thrown off balance, tearing out a small chunk of skin suited to fit in the mouth of a fourteen year old, my lip-span not big enough to reach bone from that angle, or really even rip open veins and arteries. My back hits the ground hard, driving the breath out of me. But I don't have time to recover. He's on me again, fist raised.

Jordan saves me. Or rather, the sudden expansion of space between Mr. Nothing and I does. He's thrown off balance, his punch missing me by inches. The room distorts around us, going funhouse mirror mode again as Jordan stands over me protectively, while I spit out the gross cloth of Mr. Nothing's jacket. I look towards him, trying to gauge the wound, only to be left disappointed at just how shallow my attack was, only leaving small puncture marks in his skin that are barely bleeding. Jordan reaches down, grabs me by the ponytail, and yanks me back to my feet. "Handle the one without bullets," they breathe out, the cloud of dust beginning to settle.

"I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!" Mudslide screeches, sinking me up to my knees in an instant. Thinking fast, I jam my spear into the nearest loom to prevent me from being sucked all the way down, my arms screaming as the ground threatens to swallow me. Mr. Polygraph rolls up his sleeves and starts advancing, with the sort of anger I've only before seen on old women spurned by a cashier when trying to cut coupons.

"Mudslide!" Mr. Nothing yells, taking aim with his pistol and firing a deafeningly loud bullet right by Jordan's head, only narrowly missing from the need to duck backwards from an iron machine part about to take his head off. Jordan swings and swipes, and an ill-timed use of Mudslide's power traps the wrong person's ankle, giving them just enough leverage to smack Mr. Nothing's pistol out of their hand. "Why did you waste all your bullets you fucking idiot!"

Mr. Polygraph swings for my head, and between the sinking ground and getting punched in the face by a forty year old man, I'll take the ground. I let go of my spear and let Mudslide's powers take me down to my hips before grabbing hold of Mr. Polygraph's ankles. Out of the corner of my blood sense, I watch Jordan and Mr. Nothing jockeying for position, my heart pumping so crazy hard I feel like I'm going to pass out. Jordan lets out a cry of pain as Mudslide blindsides them with his shoulder, ramming them onto the ground next to me, and Mr. Nothing pulls himself free of the wet dirt, diving on top of them.

Instantly, any changes in space vanish. As Mr Nothing grabs for Jordan's shoulders, I feel his fingers, the blood flow in every extremity, digging around their costume, and as soon as Mr. Nothing touches skin, the entire warehouse snaps back to normal.

Mr. Nothing.

Because he turns your powers off.

I get it now.

The world is still snapping back into focus, raw clarity coursing through me. I'm tired, so tired, my head thudding like a second heartbeat. I hear Jordan's sharp breaths, their feet dancing on the ground as they move, every thud echoing with purpose and intent. It's all swirling around me: the sour smell of sweat, the metallic tang of blood, and the dusty residue of Jordan's spatial shifts. The wet slurping sound of mud being created, manipulated, and destroyed. The dirt, once hard and unforgiving, is now a swamp, threatening to drag us all under.

Mudslide, all rage and recklessness, can't control his powers with any precision, not even an ounce of it. The ground liquifies and hardens intermittently, creating chaos on the battlefield. I feel my feet get sucked in just as I manage to pull myself out, the cold, damp earth curling around my ankles, trying to imprison me.

I hear the distinct sound of Mr. Polygraph's shoes on the remaining patches of unaltered concrete, their soles making a soft squishing sound on the muddy ground, getting louder with every step he takes. I crane my neck, seeing him coming straight for me, his fists balled up. They're big, veined, and calloused from countless fights, making my minimal combat training seem like a joke. And yet, there's this burning defiance in me, pushing me to fight, to bite, to survive. I see Jordan struggling, really struggling, with Mr. Nothing, Mudslide cackling as he pulls the two of them down into the liquefied concrete.

Suddenly, a sharp pain pierces through my ribs, driving the wind out of me. Mr. Polygraph, faster than his bulky frame suggests, steps in on me and drives his knee into my side. The sharp, agonizing feeling makes me think that he might have broken a rib or two. I gasp, the world spinning as I'm thrown back, my back twisting as my hips try to escape the ground – I'm stuck, a boxing bag in a gym. Mr. Polygraph's face looms over, his breath reeking of mints. In a quick motion, he grabs my hair and pulls my head up only to slam his knee into my face. I feel the cartilage in my nose snap, a hot rush of blood spewing out. My vision blurs with tears, and every breath feels like inhaling shards of glass.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

Yet in this haze of pain and disorientation, there's a peculiar focus. A sense of raw, animalistic need to survive. It's almost like my body is acting on its own, separate from my thoughts. With Mr. Polygraph so close, I smell the metallic tinge of his own blood. His hand has a fistful of my hair, and his knee lowers down slowly. I feel his veins twisting with his movements, and predict him. I punch him in the balls. I punch him in the balls again. I punch him in the balls again. On my third attempt, I go for a grab and twist, trying to crush something, but he lets go of me, stumbling backwards, knees buckling.

I jam my hands into the loom and pull myself out, adrenaline giving me strength I didn't realize existed inside of me. Blood is pouring out of my smashed mask, the clacking jaws broken like a twig by Mr. Polygraph's knee, so I rip it off, breaking the strings, and hurl it at Mudslide. I don't bother to look at him. I just lunge forward.

The satisfying crunch of breaking bone fills my ears as Mr. Polygraph screams out in pain. He pulls back, reeling from the force of my bite. The wound on his shoulder is open and gushing, and a part of me is repulsed by my own savagery. The other part is fiercely satisfied – now this is a bite, nothing like the weak little nibble I gave Mr. Nothing. Mr. Polygraph's fist meets my stomach, and I let go, gasping in pain and stumbling back into the loom. I reach for my spear, but it's already gone.

With swift precision, Jordan stabs Mr. Nothing in the gut, ramming it all the way through. They let out a furious animal yell, slamming their palm against the end of the rusted iron bar, jamming it through Mr. Nothing's stomach and out the side. The shock on his face is palpable. As he falls backward, his grip on the powers around him falters. Without a solid grip on Jordan's skin, he can't nullify their powers, and both he and Mudslide go sailing away. I feel the blood pooling in Jordan's neck, and know instantly that Mr. Nothing was strangling them – really strangling, the kind where he was trying to crush their windpipe with his thumbs.

My world, a swirling blur of pain and blood, spins crazily around me, but in its chaotic heart, the icy bite of adrenaline narrows everything to a pinpoint of ferocious clarity. It's in this state of heightened awareness that I notice it – a hairline fracture in my focus. Jordan's presence, their strength, wavers beside me. My heart, already racing, pounds harder as fear and protectiveness for my friend flood my senses.

Every gasp, every breath Jordan takes is ragged, the usual cadence of their heart rhythm distorted with pain and exhaustion. It feels as if they're hanging on to consciousness by a mere thread. The expanded space wobbles and twitches in a way I've never seen it do before, twisting and rippling like a funhouse mirror. They're losing their grip – on consciousness and their powers.

As space contracts around us once more, Mr. Nothing lunges with a look of pure professional hatred. I witness the embodiment of malice in his gaze. His punch, fast and determined, comes straight for Jordan's face. But their helmet, their lifeline, takes the brunt of the blow. Even as I watch, I can feel the force of the impact reverberating through my friend's body. I hear a distant ringing sound and realize it's not just in my ears – it's coming from Jordan's helmet.

Yet, even as the force of the blow would've felled any normal person, Jordan stands their ground. Unfortunately, Mr. Nothing isn't done, and he follows his jab with a vicious left hook. Time seems to stretch and squeeze around the scene, and I watch with mounting horror as Jordan's body goes limp, sent hurtling towards me. Their body collides with mine, and the momentum sends us sprawling to the ground. It's a tangle of limbs and pain, our breaths syncing in wheezing gasps, our bodies beginning to sink once more in the liquid concrete.

And then, as if my senses were not already overwhelmed, the stench of stale sweat and menace looms over us. Mr. Polygraph, grinning wickedly, stands tall, gun in hand. He looms over me, over us, the taste of victory evident in his eyes. The world takes on a metallic tinge as my broken nose registers the blow from the gun handle before my brain does. Pain, raw and blinding, floods my senses. I can taste blood, feel its warmth as it trickles from my nose. I gasp for air, and get lungfuls of fresh blood instead, stinging the inside of my throat.

As Jordan and I crumble into an ungainly heap, a certain kind of terror grabs me. The vulnerability, the realization that we're at the mercy of these monsters, hits me, and tears flood my face, just as warm as the blood.

Death awaits.

Just as sheer despair threatens to pull me into the sweet allure of unconsciousness, there's a sudden pressure on my stomach, and my eyes go wide. I gasp, choking on a mouthful of blood as Mudslide, ever the opportunist, uses our vulnerability to his advantage, pinning us beneath his weight. His foot on my abdomen forces out a choked gasp, blood bubbling in my throat. Every nerve is screaming, every sense is heightened, but my body just isn't able to handle this sort of pain. It's not moving. It's stopped responding. I'm bluescreening.

Mudslide's taunts are a series of muffled words, my ears still ringing from the sounds of our fight. The pressure of his knee grinding into my ribs is unbearable, the raw hurt making me gasp and gag. But, as he lifts his head slightly, eyes widening in realization, whatever has him distracted breaks into my consciousness, a sharp, loud piercing sound. The siren's wail and whining cuts through everything else, a scalpel in my skin.

Mudslide, for all his bravado and raw power, is momentarily taken aback. It's this momentary distraction, this tiny crack in his concentration, that I seize. With all the fear, adrenaline, and desperation I can possibly muster, I sink my teeth into his exposed shin. There's a heady taste of blood, and his scream pierces the tumultuous noise around us. He's momentarily thrown off-balance, kicking me away in his agony.

And then, Mr. Nothing, with the pipe still protruding grotesquely from his side, bellows an order that's a mix of rage and desperation. "We're done here," he hisses out, staggering, blood dripping from his mouth and from his wound, his voice too calm to be real. I can see it on his face, enough to read his mind – if he had his gun, he would not be letting us leave alive, but it's somewhere in the wet ground, hidden in the murk and the dark. He and I both know this essential truth. I am a dead girl walking.

Mudslide, still reeling from my bite, hisses through gritted teeth, "This ain't over." With a gesture, he liquefies part of the warehouse wall, creating an escape route. Mudslide, clutching his bleeding leg, hisses with a promise of vengeance, "This ain't over, bitch." His glare burns into me, and then flicks over to Jordan. "Both of you… you're going to pay. Big time, cunt."

He staggers to the nearest wall and presses his hand against it. The brick dissolves into a vaguely brick-colored sludge, leaving a gap just big enough for the three of them to shamble out to. As he passes by, the sludge reforms into twisted brick, leaving a distorted, door-shaped mark on the wall.

For a few moments, the cavernous warehouse is eerily silent, save for our wet, labored breaths and the distant wail of the sirens growing louder. The pain, the exhaustion, and the aftermath of the battle weigh down heavily. I feel Jordan's fingers, weak and trembling, trying to grasp mine. The touch, though fleeting, is grounding, a reminder that amidst this chaos, we're not alone. With difficulty, I manage to croak out, "Jordan… are you alive?"

Their response is weak, but defiant. "Still here… glad I called 911," they rasp.

I drink the air like it's water and I've been desertbound for weeks. The warmth of Jordan's body is comforting underneath my own screaming, broken frame. I just… lie there, bleeding on top of them. "Status report?"

"Not shot, so I'm holding up better than you," Jordan cracks, laughing weakly. "I think I have a concussion. Everything's sparkly. How about you?"

My voice sounds hilariously stuffed through what is definitely a broken nose, some of the blood on my face starting to crust up at the edges, wet, sticky, and warm. "Two gun wounds. My nose is definitely broken. I'm pretty sure he cracked a rib, too," I say, and as I note it, each injury flares to life. The last one, especially, sucks the hardest. I'm too dizzy to make heads or tails of what I'm seeing in my blood sense, as the departing criminals reach the edge of my range and vanish into what I can only assume is a car, judging by how they're sitting.

The ground is solid now, but I can't tell when it turned back into that. My entire body is wracked with pain, more pain than I've ever experienced in my entire life, and I can tell the blood is leaking out of me at a dangerously quick rate. The sirens get louder, and I see sweeping flashlights carve paths across the dark. "Well, don't die on me yet. I'll feel really bad about it," Jordan groans, wrapping an arm around my midsection protectively.

"I can't die now. Can you imagine how mad my parents would be?" I gurgle. I stare up at the ceiling as flashlight beams train on us, as screaming sirens overtake the air. "Fuck. My parents are going to be so mad."