"Hnng!", the suit groans in pain, "What? You talk, now?!" Having turned his head as much as he can from within the brick wall. The suit's expression is far from pleased— much less so when covered in blood and red dust. Suspiciously though, a hint of another emotion could be surmised between it all. Not to be lost midst the action, the assailant picked up on this, too.

    Staring down at the trapped suit, the assailant's darting eyes come to a stop. Stopping dead on the sole pupil that the assailant can meet with, the suit's left eye peers back through the stinging bloody haze that coats it. The assailant stands emotionless at the sight before him—injured as he may be—before limping to the suit's blindside. The tapping of red pebbles echo closer with each and every step. He cannot see what the assailant is about to do. Thus, he cannot accurately counter with his schtick in time. The steps slow to a solemn stop.

    "What about the 'Demon of the Snow'?", the assailant monotonously asks. A minute may pass of slience, but it is far from a pleasant minute— to be sure. There's no time left for half-measured plays. A gust of air evaporates away from the suit. The assailant is about to throw his punch. But, to where? It doesn't matter anymore.

    The punch is thrown, but it does not connect. "Aaggghh!", the assailant screams in agony. The suit's right leg had moved. Providing a low kick of sorts, the suit moved fast. Possibly even instinctively, the suit stomped as to where he thought the assailant's injured foot would be. Due to the pebbles tapping and the angle most likely needed for his uninjured arm, the suit stomped— in assumption— in the dark. While effective as it may have been, it's noticeable to him that only the top quarter of his shoe made contact with the assailant's fractured ankle. It isn't enough to down the man for good, but it is sufficient in buying himself a precious few minutes more.

    In a bit of frantic rage, the suit 'solidifies' his knee as he rams it into the brick wall. He hits and hits as close as he can to his closest trapped hand. Letting out hushed peeps of pain with every smash. It's enough. His left hand his free. As the suit repeats this process on his other stuck body parts, the crippled assailant—using the same brick wall—shakily returns to his standing position. Albeit, limited by the needed crutch the wall provides, the assailant attempts the less travelled option one last time. "Are they that important to you that all this is worth your secrecy? You look nothing like the things I've heard of those two. The string of mangled bodies they've left behind doesn't affect you at all??", the assailant poorly begging for the suit to see his reason. And, yet, the suit shares the same mixed expression with the assailant once more.

    The brick crumbling, the suit has finally broken free from his masonry chains as he turns to his persistent perpetrator. The man, tattered in torn fabric and blood from both, darkens his assailant in the image of his own shadow. While neither necessarily that much taller than the other, the immediate stone-like bulk underneath—and cutting through—the suit towers over his weakened, vulnerable assailant. The intimidating, adrenaline-blinded rage of the suit demonstrates how tiny the assailant must be in comparison, especially in his current state. Nevertheless, the assailant stands resolute in his decisions, in his actions. For, regardless of what comes next, the next move truly will be their last.

    The suit launches his bulky, spiked punch down at his assailant. The forearm spikes sliding, crashing into the remaining brick wall the assailant leans on all the down. The bulk, while increasing the destructive power, incurs the same issue his legs had from the moment the suit landed on solid ground: slowed movement speed. As the fist picks up speed, the forearm spikes planted inside the wall take it away. The perfect reprieve. As the fist comes down, the slowed speed gives enough time for the assailant to move. Pushing off the wall, the assailant hops away from the fist's trajectory— and into his perfect shot. Taking his healthier hand, the assailant swings out a twisting punch at the suit's throat. Under the assumption that the suit cannot risk hardening around his airways, this is his best shot. Shooting his shot, the assailant's punch connects. Except, the punch connects with the suit's other hand.

    Both caught in even greater precarious situations, they know that they cannot afford to backtrack now. The suit yanks the assailant's punching hand away. Using all his declining strength, the suit is slowly cutting through the brick wall with his punching hand as it comes back around. Caught between rumble or defeat, the assailant compromises with a draw within himself. Turning his eyes back to the suit's face, the assailant throws his head back and belts it back out. The assailant headbutts the suit head-on. A loud crack can be heard exclaiming throughout the isolated, echoing alleyway. Pulling away from the suit, the sight of his forehead shows what he had hoped. The suit's forehead appears to have a crack across it. Blood rushes out, yet something is off. The assailant's vision is the one becoming blurred.

    "You thought the wall softened the stones within my head? Surprised you'd be tricked so easily after all that—that, or you're just that forgetful.", the suit gloats, "Whew~! That's sure boo-coo amounts of blood coming from yours though. You stupid SOB."

The suit's sharp gloats booming as the blood drips down in front of the assailant's face. His vision blurry and his body overwhelmingly broken, all the assailant can do is crawl away. He slides backwards across the cement and fresh brick gravel as this suit's words inspire the next. If he can just slide away into view of any of the partying people detouring from the street a distance behind, then he knows he will have the chance to live to fight another day. He must make it closer to the slurred voices behind him, at any cost.

*Pof*

Yet, the sense of direction would be lost when one finds themselves midst a place where voices echo and all turns look identical— assuming one could see to begin with. The assailant's jacket deflates against a brick wall.

"Ha! That's absolutely perfect! You must be a natural at this, dead-man. Just know, you've earned this yourself."

Having backed himself into the opposite building's wall, the assailant can only watch through his blood-covered eyes as the suit moves in.

Taking his sweet, rocky time, the edges of the suit's lip etch themselves deeper, higher up into his cheeks— he had won against his attacker. But, at what cost?

The cracking from the smooth rock-like formation within his forehead—from below his skin—begins to rupture. The crack implodes back into where his skull naturally would be. The space left between the two sides of the crack tears open. A fissure forms above the suit's eyes,  from the fleshy gates come forth the same liquid that blinds his assailant: blood. The suit raises a hand to it in fear. The suit tries his best to hold it all back as his wide, mad grin devolves into a more humane wince. His limit has been reached. This whole, wild happenstance has come to an unsatisfying end. Stopped in his tracks, both men find themselves encumbered by their numerous injuries— and conditions. The obvious had come true. The obvious stoking a fire just below the suit's rocky exterior. This is a stalemate. Alas, it is not his words that ring out first.

Climbing out from the assailant's staggered breathes, "After all that, and you still can't beat me."

"Oh, shut up, weirdo.", the suit retorts through his wincing, "I won this. Clearly."

"Nah. No way.", the assailant dismisses,"Even with all that cheap rock-stuff inside you, you still couldn't kill a normal, well-fit guy like me."

"What'chu say, punk?", the suit barks,"It's you who started it. This. All of, whatever the hell, any of this was about."

"You're still playing dumb? Really?", the assailant questions. Heated by the suit's refusal of any acknowledgements he was hunting for, the assailant lets loose. "I know that you're all up to something, crony. Just cause you matched me today, doesn't mean I'll stop. It wouldn't be right..."

Confused and at his wit's end, the suit explodes, "What are you talking about, guy?! I am a stock broker with a wife and kid. I work long hours. I sometimes meet with shady people. I'm not the pinnacle of sainthood—sure—but, I bet, you sure as hell aren't either." Stunting the assailant's accusatorial reply for a handful of minutes more, the suit turns to catch his heated breath and nurse his wounds. The assailant trepidatiously lies in wait— hoping for a slip up, something to make this fight worth the damage. After taking in a deep breath, he continues his tirade,"I'm getting so sick of this crap! Pestering, stalking, attacking; all this on the rise since all this sickness bs started wearing off a year or so ago. And, for what? What's right? No. If only all of you pulled your heads from your asses. You, and people like you, sicken me."

    These words pressed upon the assailant's ringing ears. Many of the intended meanings fall by the wayside as they pound into his eardrums. Was he not the first? Is this that common? Is this a distraction?

    This pause, this lapse between the two, felt like eons. The stalemate may have come to through forced means, but this weighted collection of quiet minutes heightened this uneasy tension. The uncertainty of what the other might be thinking lies heavy on each other's minds. The assailant pulls his eyes to the suit,"Either you're bluffing me or you actually have nothing much to do with them, I don't know. What I do know is that a sleazy broker like you is always 'in the know'. So, I want to know, who knows who is the man with the ouroboros tattoo?"

"Are you kidding me? Is this guy serio—", the suit mumbles to himself. Pinching at the bridge of his nose, the astonishment at his assailant's stubbornness has gotten to the point beyond words. By appearance—or what still remained unscathed of them—they might both look like grown men, but this, unfortunately, didn't come close to the truth. It became evident between his assailant's retorts, maturity was the question instead of the answer. In this lack from the one sat below him, the suit is left a choice. Left with this choice of maturity or continued juvenility, the suit chooses what he does best. Loudly chastising his assailant,"Look, you overgrown child, I meet with many people on the job. And, as many of them know, I'm not one to pass a good time. But, good god, do I not care about any of them. And, that means, their personal lives either. And, then, there's you."