Keith's body trembled with rage.
Everything Elius had just said — the cold logic, the way he broke down his friends into tools, the way he reduced their bond into political liabilities — it burned in his chest like molten iron. His fists clenched. His breathing turned sharp. His heart screamed to act.
And then he moved.
Keith surged forward with a roar, his foot cutting through the air in a high, spiraling kick aimed directly at Elius's temple. But Elius didn't even flinch. He tilted his head slightly — barely — and the kick passed just shy of contact, brushing the edges of his collar.
Keith landed, pivoted on his foot, and launched into a volley of punches — wild, furious jabs that carved the air in jagged lines. His fists blurred. Left, right, uppercut, hook. Each strike packed enough power to crack concrete. Each one was fueled by frustration, guilt, anger, sorrow — and most of all, helplessness.
But Elius dodged them all.
