( You are a restless spirit and you have awoken the gods. ) He drags himself back up the steps, slick with blood, to escape the consuming shadow of Hades’ domain that bites at his heels. Desperation has begun to devour him, so he turns to those for mercy who would have begged for his in times passed. He encounters luck in an outstretched hand offering him a chance at safety ( a chance to reach salvation lest he remain within this damnation ) . He grasps it in his hand, some feeble saving grace in a bullet, and continues his race with fate.
It leads him here, once again poised as a horseman, The Boogeyman dressed in black. Legends precede him, tellings of elegant and brutal destruction, so he holds himself as a wolf now, staring down prey. ( Yet he does not hunger. ) He expects nothing less than her own claws, thrashing at him. There were no formalities exchanged, though he wonders if she can tell that he would rather not take her life tonight. He fights with ferocity, still, one bullet firing into the ground as she redirects his wrist away from her midsection. The motion comes quickly as she spins and twists his arm, disarming him. The firearm clatters to the ground and John’s head whips in its direction when it falls.
He rotates and throws a hard punch that connects with her jaw. Even as her legs stumble from the shock, he can feel her firm grips still pulling at his clothes, keeping herself in striking distance. She knees up near the groin, John just barely avoiding its full blow. ( A wolf against a wolf, it seems. ) He breathes sharply and tightens his jaw, reaching out to grasp the lapels of her jacket. He tugs once, twice, confirming his grip is secure, before he falls to the ground, pulling the both of them down. He lands on his back, moving his leg quickly as she makes impact with the floor. His leg comes against her chest and neck, holding her down, while he pulls at one arm, twisting it slightly. A slew of insults is thrown in his direction – ‘ Motherfucker! ’ – while she struggles, pawing at his leg, but he ignores them.
John releases her arm and rolls backwards over his hip, onto his knees. The exhaustion is setting in with the pain following close behind to settle within his bones. They may spout the unnatural in his skills, but the Baba Yaga is no more than a man underneath all the myth. He goes for the gun, on his knees as his outstretched hand reaches it. Fingers haven’t yet closed around the weapon as a blade enters his shoulder and her weight comes against his back. The knife moves straight down and he cries out in pain, taking full hold of the gun and aiming it over the same shoulder, firing three times.
Her scream alerts him to his success while her weight comes away from him. His hand takes hold of the knife and he pulls it out, keeping it tightly in his fist. A growl rises in his throat from the pain ; he can feel the blood begin to soak the shoulder of his shirt, sticking the fabric to his skin. The gun is wielded in the opposite hand and he begins to stand and turn, prepared to end this, but just as he does, the heel of a boot collides with an unsteady leg, forcing him to the ground once more. Before he can lift himself again, she forces the sleeve of her shed jacket around his neck, squeezing and tightening at the throat now. ( They roll along the forest floor, baring their teeth and barking at one another. ) His hands instinctively drop the weapons and attempt to pull it away from his neck, watching as she kicks the gun, sending it skidding across the room. John can hear her snarl in determination, unwilling to die, ready to kill him. He laces his fingers together and throws his hands over his shoulder to hit her in the cheek. When he turns over, onto his back, he only feels how much tighter she pulls the jacket sleeve. He grabs onto her neck and pulls her face toward his chest, his knee then bends and flies toward her, slamming into the side of her head.
Pressure comes away from his throat and he throws the jacket away, scrambling to grab the discarded knife while she’s been thrown off of him. He catches his breath for no more than second, pulling himself to his feet and advancing toward her. Seemingly unbalanced from the blow, he catches her just as she stands, blade in hand. Eden Emerson carries surprises with her still ; still hunched over, she punches him in the side, hard and effective. ( This fight isn’t over yet. ) Standing straight, she lands a blow straight into his chest. There’s fire in her eyes, mingling and becoming one with the anger she aims at him. He swipes with the blade and she dodges, blocking his arm as it comes back with a second try. The sole of her boot kicks his stomach now, sending him stumbling back, forcing him to regain his balance.
He blocks the punch she throws at him, slipping underneath her outstretched arm, and spinning behind her. He forces the blade into her side quickly then removes it. He locks her arm in place with his empty one for the moment, holding her against him. She reaches her free arm behind her, attempting to grab at his face but he cranes his neck back. The knife goes into her side again, twisting somewhat this time and she shouts abruptly. He releases her arm and spins her around, shoving her against a wall now. She catches his wrist mid-motion as the knife is aimed for her chest. They make eye-contact for a brief second, John gritting his teeth. Her nostrils flare and she stares him down harshly. He sees no begs for mercy in her eyes, no pitiful cries for him to stop. ( She only refuses to lose, even in death. ) But he looks down at the knife and pushes harder. Her second hand grips onto the lapel of his suit jacket, pulling. He takes hold of her shoulder and moves his body forward now, using his own chest to finally push the blade between her ribs, down to its handle.
A breath escapes him and he hears her choke at the blade’s deep piercing. He steps away from her, pulling the knife with him. He drops it and she sinks down to the floor. He catches his breath, the true stinging of his stab wound beginning to affect him deeper and deeper. He sighs tiredly and turns, beginning to walk away while she’s to bleed out, but she stops him : ‘ Hey… ’ So he looks back, no triumph in his eyes, no satisfaction in her imminent demise. He grants her her last words with respect, listening. ‘ Tell Dor…rian – ’ she begins, breathlessly and stumbling over her words. Her eyes lift up toward him as she raises a single hand with an upright middle digit. ‘ – F…fuck you. ’ Blood is spit into the air and falls over her lips as she says it before her arm lowers back to the ground and she groans in pain, coughing. John’s eyes remain trained on her for just a second more before they fall, a huff of air pushing through his nose. He takes a tired step away from her, leaving her to die.
