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He drives Noir backward through the balcony doorway so hard the glass shakes in its frame. Noir swings at him, catching Dagger in the ribs. Dagger grunts but barely reacts, blood from his gunshot wound streaking down his arm as he grabs Noir by the collar and slams him against the railing.

The fight turns vicious instantly.

No pretty choreography.

No clean punches.

Just rage.

Noir is fast, sharper than he looks, elbowing Dagger’s injured arm hard enough Dagger curses violently. Dagger answers by smashing his forehead into Noir’s face. Blood sprays onto the balcony floor. Noir laughs, grabs Dagger’s shoulder, and drives a knee into his stomach.

I scream for them to stop.

Neither of them listens.

Of course they don’t.

Men like them don’t stop when love asks.

Only when violence finishes speaking.

They crash into the balcony furniture, knocking a chair sideways. Dagger slips briefly on the wet concrete, and Noir uses it, shoving him toward the railing.

For one horrific second, my heart stops.

Then Dagger catches himself and turns, grabbing Noir by the throat.

“You took her sister,” Dagger snarls.

Noir claws at his wrist, face darkening from the pressure.

“You handed her to the city first.”

Dagger punches him.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Noir’s knees buckle.

He spits blood onto the balcony.

Still smiling.

Weaker now.

But there.

“Do it,” Noir rasps. “Finish something for once.”

Dagger freezes.

Only for half a second.

Enough for Noir’s eyes to flick toward me.