The moment Crown pulsed again, the burrower moved. It dove into space like it was loose dirt, carving forward in a straight line, fast. I didn't dodge this time. I stepped straight in, met it head-on.
My fist collided with its center. It wasn't solid, but it wasn't liquid either. My knuckles sank in like dense rubber, thick with resistance. For a second, the form cratered inward — then snapped back.
The dent smoothed over like it had never been hit. I pivoted and punched low into its side. Same result. A ripple, a bend, then reformation.
I struck again, this time an open palm across the head. It flinched, not from pain, but from momentum. No expression, no scream, no pause. It moved more like a mechanism than anything alive.
Sliding around its body, I slammed my knee into its midsection. The shape buckled, then recoiled like memory being enforced. Even the teeth I'd broken earlier had regrown. I stepped back, breathing calm.
