Bridge was losing.
The gamblers who bet on him shifted uncomfortably, voices rising in frustrated shouts as momentum slipped further and further out of his hands.
Drainen moved like a demon carved out of blood and spite.
He didn't wait for Bridge to stumble. He made opportunities—by hurting himself. A slice across his forearm. A knuckle smashed open on purpose. A stomp that sprayed fresh blood across the floor. Every injury he inflicted on his own body became fuel, another weapon to twist into form.
Every drop of blood he shed turned into a weapon.
And every new weapon made him stronger.
Sharper.
More vicious.
