It's not graceful, not tactical. It's a primal, furious sprint across the ruined floor. You flinch, trying to lift your arms, but you're too slow, too spent. My right fist, heavy with all the pain and rage I've endured, slams into the side of your jaw with everything I have left. The impact is sickeningly solid, a loud crack that I feel reverberate up my arm. Your eyes roll back, and your head whips violently to the side, already a dead weight.
Before you can even begin to crumple, I follow through with a brutal left hook, connecting flush with your temple. You're out. Your body goes limp, sliding down the wall like a discarded doll, landing in a heap on the dusty floor. A ragged, rattling gasp escapes your lips, and then... silence.
I stand over you, chest heaving, the blood from my nose dripping onto the floor beside your unmoving face. My entire body is shaking, screaming in agony, but a cold, grim satisfaction settles over me. My vision is still blurred, my head pounding, but you're down. You're finished. "That's right," I rasp, spitting a mouthful of blood and dust beside your head. "Your grave." I stand there for a moment, swaying slightly, before slowly, painfully, turning away from your crumpled form. It's done.
