The forest hadn't changed. Same trees. Same smoke curling from the dying fire. But everything else had.
Last night, Levi sang off-key. Javi played beautiful melodies. Ralph played the drum with his whole heart. We sat close enough to forget we were broken.
But now... Now the silence was back.
And it brought knives.
"I guess it's settled then," I said. And something in me curled up and stopped breathing.
I moved. Didn't think. Didn't want to think. I hit her. Flat. Echomaker to the face. The sound was unreal, like wood splitting under pressure.
She flew. Like I needed her to. Then I felt her hand tap my shoulder from the back. How did she--? A whisper of presence. Then—darkness. Her fist hit my face, the world before me tilted.
Pain didn't come immediately. Just silence.
The kind that's deafening. I staggered back, the taste of blood and smoke indistinguishable.
The campfire behind me crackled like it was laughing. Like it remembered last night and wanted me to suffer for it.
Goldie stood there. Still. She wasn't angry. She wasn't sad. She was done. And I.. I wasn't sure I was still real. My Vibe.... it wasn't screaming. It wasn't fighting back. It was grieving.
Because even though I swung first, She left first. And now I'm just trying to keep up. Some people leave by standing still. And some punches aren't about hurting. They're about saying, I can't carry this anymore. And I think that's what we're doing.
Not fighting. Letting go the only way we know how. One hit at a time.
The blade sings when it splits. I split the Echomaker into two star shaped blades. One for pain. One for poetry. I don't need a full guitar to make music. I just need rage... and rhythm.
Goldie doesn't flinch. Of course she doesn't. Her eyes say it all. I hurt her. Or maybe I was the only one that ever could.
So she charges. Faster than I remember. A blur of silk and venom. Her slap hits like guilt. Her punch, like everything I never said. She doesn't hold back. She's not supposed to.
I duck. Twist. Freestyle. My blades answer her fists with sharp chords, every swing a broken chorus. No technique, no form.... just me syncing with the ache, dancing in chaos.
She kicks, I spin. She elbows, I parry. Her knuckles draw blood from my lip, but I taste something else... Regret.
This isn't a fight. It's a confession written in bruises and broken skin. Every blow she lands screams "Why won't you listen?"
Every slash I throw echoes back "Respect my choices."
No audience. No mercy. Just the firelight flickering shadows on shattered hearts and fractured souls. The forest holds its breath, and so do I.
And beneath the roar of fists and blades, beneath the noise, I hear something fragile... fear. Maybe this dance of pain is all we have left to say. Maybe this fight will write the final verse of us.
***
Levi never wanted to fight Spencer. Not today. Not yet. His duty, his obsession, was Javi. Levi had one goal: stop him. No matter the cost.
So the Levi Spencer surrounded… wasn't him. Just a fragment of his essence, a clone. A piece of armor left behind while the real Levi slipped through the cracks like mist.
He moved in shadows, unnoticed, silent. He almost made it. Almost. Because Spencer—sharp, spiteful, strategic—had known. Not hoped. Not guessed. Known.
Known that Levi wouldn't stay in the center of the stage. That he'd vanish, retreat, find a better vantage.
So Spencer left a gift. His own clone. Far off. Sniper rifle steady. Patience coiled tight. The crosshair found its target the moment Levi moved. So he pulled the trigger.