Novak crouches in the abandoned warehouse, his breath ragged and uneven. His fingers tremble around the hilt of his sword—a battered longsword that feels unwieldy in his grip. Sweat beads on his brow, matting his dark hair, and his muscles ache from the strain. The air reeks of rust and mold, the dim light slicing through broken windows to paint the concrete floor in uneven patches. The sound of footsteps echo through the darkness, closing in on Novak.

  The figure steps into view, a silhouette of menace cloaked in shadow. His movements are fluid, precise—a swordsman who radiates mastery of the sword. The hood obscures his face, but Novak feels the weight of his gaze, cold and calculating. This isn’t just a fight; it’s a brutal mismatch, and Novak’s on the losing end.

  “You’re strongly mistaken if you think a mask can hide who you really are!” Novak mutters, his voice shaky but up for the task. He grips the sword tighter, its balance still a mystery to him.

  The figure doesn’t respond. He lunges, his own blade—a sleek, curved saber—cutting through the air with lethal intent. Novak stumbles back, raising his sword in a clumsy parry. Steel clashes, the impact jarring his arms, and he nearly drops the weapon. The figure presses forward, relentless, his strikes a blur of speed and skill. Novak blocks one blow, then another, but each hit drives him back, his footing uncertain on the debris-strewn floor.

  The figure’s saber nicks his forearm, a shallow cut that stings like fire. Novak hisses, retreating toward a rusted conveyor belt. Dropping all the empty crates in his path behind him. His eyes dart around the warehouse—crates, chains, a shattered window leading somewhere else.

  “There has to be something.” he says, barely having any breath left.

  He bolts, weaving through the clutter, and crashes through the window into the night beyond.

  He lands hard in an adjacent building, a crumbling storage shed littered with junk. Pain lances through his shoulder, and he feels the cold, jagged slide of glass down his back, but he scrambles up, clutching his sword. The figure’s footsteps echo behind him—he’s coming. Novak scans the shed: a coil of rope, a dented toolbox, a stack of splintered planks. His mind races. He’s got no time.

  He grabs the rope and a plank, ducking behind a rusted water tank. The figure enters, his saber glinting in the moonlight streaming through the shed’s collapsed roof. Novak holds his breath, looping the rope into a crude snare as quietly as he can. His hands shake from anticipation to what happens next.

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  The figure moves closer, cautious but confident. Novak waits, then hurls the plank across the shed. It clatters against a wall, and the figure spins toward the sound. Novak leaps, swinging the rope snare over a low beam and yanking it tight around the figure’s ankle. The hooded man stumbles, caught off-guard, and Novak charges.

  Their blades meet again, but this time Novak has momentum. He swings wildly, the longsword heavy and awkward, but it forces the figure back. The rope tangles the man’s legs, slowing him, and Novak presses the advantage. He grabs a rusted wrench from the floor and hurls it, striking the figure’s shoulder. A muffled grunt escapes the hood.

  The figure recovers fast, slashing at the rope to free himself. Novak ducks a swing, the saber slicing air above his head, and rolls toward the toolbox. He snatches a hammer, gripping it in his off-hand. He’s no master swordsman, but he’s a survivor, and this shed is his turf now.

  He lunges, feinting with the sword and smashing the hammer into the figure’s knee. The man staggers, his saber dipping, and Novak swings again, the longsword biting into the figure’s side. Blood stains the cloak, dark and wet, but the figure retaliates, a backhand strike catching Novak’s jaw. Pain explodes, and he tastes copper as he crashes into a stack of crates.

  Wood splinters around him, and the world spins. The figure looms, limping but still deadly, his saber raised. Novak scrambles, grabbing a jagged plank from the wreckage. He thrusts it upward as the figure strikes, deflecting the blade and driving the splintered end into the man’s thigh. A sharp cry breaks the silence, and the figure stumbles back.

  Novak doesn’t hesitate. He surges forward, sword slashing in a desperate arc. The figure parries, but his movements are slower now, blood loss taking its toll. Novak ducks under a weak counter-strike and rams his shoulder into the figure’s chest, sending them both sprawling. They hit the ground, rolling through dust and debris, blades forgotten in the chaos.

  Fists fly. Novak takes a punch to the ribs, then another to the face, but he gives as good as he gets, slamming his elbow into the figure’s forearm. The hood falls back, revealing a pale man on his last stand, eyes fierce but fading. Novak locks his arm around the man’s throat, squeezing with everything he has left. The figure thrashes, weaker with each second, until his struggles cease, and he goes limp.

  Novak releases him, collapsing onto his back. His chest heaves, every breath a knife in his lungs. Blood drips from his lip, his arm, a gash on his leg he didn’t even feel. The longsword lies nearby, notched and stained, a testament to his survival. He’s alive—barely. The figure’s chest rises faintly; he’s out, not dead, but Novak doesn’t care. Winning’s enough for now.

  He drags himself up, leaning on the sword like a crutch. The shed is a wreck—rope dangling, crates shattered, blood smeared across the floor. His vision blurs, but he staggers toward the man, one thought burning through the haze: How am I still alive? The question gnaws at him, sharper than the pain, but the answer can wait. For now, he’s still standing, bloodied and broken, but ready for another round.

  The night stretches on, cold and unforgiving, but still moving on to winters call.