The clone fighting Damon didn't breathe.
But it did bleed.
Damon staggered back, his shoulder searing from a shallow cut that nearly disabled his dominant arm.
"Haa-haa-haa…" Damon's breath came in ragged bursts, and blood seeped down his ribs beneath the fabric of his uniform.
Across from him, the mirror-Damon stood motionless—expression blank, silver hair stained crimson, its blade humming with the same energy as his own. It moved like him. Fought like him. Thought like him.
Except for one difference.
It was relentless. Mechanical. A perfected version of Damon—without hesitation, empathy, or restraint. A weapon, sharpened to a cruel edge.
And Damon was losing.
Not because he was weaker.
But because he hesitated.
That was the point of this final fight. Not just survival.
Confrontation.
With the one person who knew his every weakness.
