The ground quaked, and the Weeper was tossed from his second Plasma Sphere, caught within its outskirts. Mikael came to a standstill at the explosion's border, needing not fear his own calculated weapon. He landed low and uneasy from his earlier pace, straining himself a little as he misjudged the impact. Parkour may have been a second nature to him, but it was apparent that his pain threshold left much to be desired.

Trails of an inconsistent, murky red trickled ever steadily from his puncture wound, barely reaching down to his elbow. While not his first time taking a bullet, it was a feeling he could never get accustomed to. His shoulder and fingers could move, but much to his irritation, his middle joint would not cooperate.
"B*stard." Mikael was sure to make his curses audible, despite his weighted breathing. Indirect hits hardly phased his opponent at all, and with that mask he wore, he couldn't even tell if they were trying. 

Having little choice, he snatched his knife into his non-dominant hand. The scrape through his right arm was more excruciating, but it remained functional at the least. With the next opening he made, Mikael did not intend to hold back in the slightest; if The Weeper could not be whittled down, he would simply make sure his next attack shattered him whole.