A wicked force swept over his shoulder, rending his skin, which became a final warning for Vos. The hitman were already in firing range, and he would know no mercy, already firing the moment he had barged through the makeshift barricade. 

A foe like that wouldn't leave him time for a second attack, and that pushed him to the most desparate of measures he would ever resort to: giving up his grasp on stream of events in favor of letting luck decide their outcome. Wether his foe would be caught off guard by this trick was unknown, yet he couldn't think of any other way to halt death's approach in time; his dagger already pointed towards Azarak, with little more than 6 feet between them, Vos fired a jet of caustic liquid towards his face, while similtaneously dropping to the ground and dashing towards the opponent's left flank. If this worked, winning him even a meager fraction of a second, there was a chance of him taking the upper hand, his body specificaly trained to gain the highest possible speed in as little time as possible.