"You really think that kind of threat would work on me?" Evon laughed, the smile on his face stretching wider, amused rather than intimidated.
There was disappointment buried in that expression too. His exoskeleton-enhanced blows had dealt with Na far too easily. It left him unsatisfied. During their fight, Evon had confirmed something important, the superhumans he’d heard about, and even seen once or twice, were far beyond what Na displayed. Na was strong, sure, but he wasn’t that level. Perhaps a half-step. A diluted version. Something unfinished.
And that meant Evon still had not tested the full potential of his exoskeleton suit.
Now, with Aron stepping into the ring, Evon’s intrigue sharpened. If Aron possessed strength similar to Na, and if the two together represented some hidden organization, then perhaps they would mimic the level of a true superhuman. That idea excited him. It meant he finally had a worthy test subject.
"I have a list," Evon continued with casual arrogance. "A detailed list of every single person in this city capable of giving me trouble. And you, " he pointed a finger directly at Aron, ", you’re not on it."
He tilted his head as if explaining something to a child.
"To deal with someone like me right now, you’d need to bring Jett himself. But I seriously doubt even he would be foolish enough to fight against the Gilt Rats. That’s how delusional you are being."
Evon expected those words to intimidate Aron.
He expected confusion, maybe fear, at hearing Jett’s name.
He expected some sign that Aron finally understood his place.
But Aron’s expression didn’t change at all.
Evon didn’t know that Aron recognized the name immediately.
He didn’t know that Jett’s involvement was precisely the danger Aron had been worried about.
Going against the Gilt Rats directly was a terrible idea.
Going against someone trained by the Black Hands was worse.
Aron spoke calmly, evenly, without agitation.
"As I said... it’s better for both of us if we don’t fight each other. I think that’s the ideal situation here."
But before Aron could finish the thought fully, Evon launched forward.
He leapt high into the air, performing a Superman punch, his fist pulled back and rocketing forward with the power of the exoskeleton behind it.
Aron reacted instantly.
He sidestepped, precise and smooth, letting the punch cut through empty space. At the same time, he drew his batons, one in each hand, and whipped the right one toward the back of Evon’s head.
Evon twisted, raising his arm with uncanny speed, blocking the hit with the reinforced limb of the exoskeleton.
Good reflexes, Aron noted silently.
He pressed forward without hesitation. Strike after strike, each baton cutting through the air with sharp efficiency. Evon parried every one, his enhanced arms keeping up even as Aron increased the tempo.
Evon narrowed his eyes behind the mask.
The quality of the batons surprised him. Most would have snapped under this kind of force, but these ones held firm. He could feel the impact through the exoskeleton.
"I knew it," Evon said. "You’re definitely not ordinary. Which is exactly why I can’t let you walk away. I need to see what you really are, to know if your little ’group’ is an actual threat to the Gilt Rats."
He threw a punch, another, a third, each enhanced, faster than a normal human could track. Aron weaved through them, slipping his torso, ducking low, pivoting out of range with razor precision.
Evon increased his speed even further.
Aron still avoided everything.
He counterstruck at an angle, a diagonal slash downward with calculated precision. Evon saw it as a perfect opening.
He stepped in immediately, ready to deliver a counterblow,
But then Aron’s left baton shot forward like lightning, extending straight toward Evon’s throat.
It hit him dead-center in the Adam’s apple.
Evon gagged violently, the sound grotesque and wet. His breath caught in his throat, his eyes bulged, and he stumbled back several steps, coughing and sputtering uncontrollably.
Even with the exoskeleton, there was no protection for his neck.
He choked, hacking, spitting, fighting for air.
"What... was that...?" Evon wheezed, clutching his throat. "I didn’t even see him move it... How did I miss that?!"
He forced himself to steady his breathing.
He analyzed the moment.
He replayed the attack in his mind.
There was only one explanation, one he hated to accept.
"That... can’t be," Evon muttered. "I fell for a trap? But I was sure I read the opening perfectly... I couldn’t have fallen for one of his traps..."
But he had.
Aron twirled the batons in his hands, taking a stance that was relaxed yet undeniably threatening.
"You’re confused," Aron said. "When I first saw your fighting style, I was confused too."
Evon’s ragged breathing grew quieter as he listened.
"At first," Aron continued, "I thought you were like me. I thought you had been trained in the same place. Your style resembles it, the subtle traps, the manipulation of openings... but something was off. Your movements didn’t have the sharpness. The precision."
Aron lifted his chin, eyes narrowing.
"And besides... if you were one of them, I would have recognized you. And I didn’t. So there’s only one conclusion."
He pointed the baton directly at Evon.
"Your teacher is a member of the Black Hands."
Evon’s eyes widened instantly.
"How do you know that name?" he demanded.
Aron’s lips curled into a thin, knowing smirk.
"Didn’t I just tell you?" Aron replied. "I would have recognized you if you were one of them."
He tapped the baton against his shoulder.
"Because I was one of them."
The words hit Evon harder than the strike to his throat.
***
*****
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