Jagger exhaled slowly through his nose, the breath leaving him in a controlled stream as he looked down at the dead monster sprawled across the pavement.
"Okay," he muttered, voice rough, still edged with adrenaline. "That was actually pretty fucking cool."
'You could have used the Volatile Gutbomb, you know.' Ophilia's voice slipped into his mind, smooth and mocking, carrying that familiar note of detached amusement.
Jagger's expression went completely blank.
He stared at the Skitterer's corpse, then lowered his gaze to the two knives still clenched in his hands. Blood coated the blades in thick, uneven streaks, already beginning to darken. He processed her words in silence. One full second passed. Then another half.
"Piss off," he said flatly, crouching beside the corpse.
The last wisps of white suppressant drifted lazily through the air around him, curling and thinning as the street sank back into a suffocating quiet. The chaos had ended, leaving behind only the aftermath.
