A sound—a rustling, scraping, scraping closer—pulled my attention. Shadows shifted along the far wall, and then they moved together, merging into a tidal wave of humanoid forms.
"Swarm detected," Notice said. "Multiple threats. Prioritize efficiency."
I inhaled, letting Rhythm sync with my pulse. My arms moved on instinct, welding debris into jagged shields, forging weapons mid-flight. Sparks hissed and sizzled as shadows collided with metal.
The swarm pressed closer. Each strike demanded calculation and improvisation, timing my body to counterattack while protecting the trapped innocents glimpsed down a side corridor. Best Welder thrummed; my fingers stung. Heat coiled in muscles, adrenaline sharpened senses.
Enhanced Perception alerted me to patterns forming within the chaos. Some shadows split, some feinted, some coordinated. Every step, dodge, strike became part of a choreography I had yet to master fully—but Rhythm held me, guiding, balancing, connecting mind and motion.
When the last shadow fell into mist, I sank to knees, sweat and heat and relief mingling. The swarm was gone—but the sense of escalation hung in the air like static.
Because I was Mizu. Broken once, yes—but adapting, surviving, mastering.