"Hit me."
It was just an instinctive command, born from the haze of urgency.
But what happened next made Michael seriously wonder if, should his undead ever turn against him, it would simply be the end of him.
Boom.
It felt like Thor's hammer had slammed straight into his stomach.
His entire world lurched.
For a split second, every sense—sight, sound, touch—fractured into white-hot shards of pain. His vision exploded into a wash of blinding light. His breath fled his lungs in a hoarse, strangled gasp.
And then—
The illusion collapsed.
Michael's awareness snapped back to his body so abruptly he nearly vomited. He barely registered the cold stone floor beneath him as he doubled over, retching dryly.
He could feel it.
The real floor. The real air.
Gasping, he forced his head up.
His hand was clutched to his abdomen where Spartan had struck him—and even through the agony, part of him noted with grim gratitude that the armored undead had shown restraint.
