Then she turned her head—not toward Elias, but upward.
Her neck moved slowly, the weight of it dragging across the blade's edge without care. It didn't cut her, but the shift forced him to follow her line of sight. She wasn't looking at him anymore. She stared past him, toward the broken ceiling above the arena—gray and wide, lined with faded support rigs and the faint outlines of system-mounted lights. Nothing else. No sky. Just the suggestion of one.
Her breathing had shortened. Her back had stopped rising fully with each inhale. Blood trickled from her scalp in a single line, tracked across her temple, then curved beneath her jaw. It clung there at the base of her throat, just beneath the edge of his blade.
She blinked once.
Her lips moved, but it took a second for sound to catch.
"…Just do it," she said.
No pleading. No performance. Just a flat, cracked whisper that barely escaped her throat.
