The last split second of the short match came and went through Zack's notice like a flash of lightning. In what might as well have been a simultaneous instance, his thrust met Seifer's abs, and Seifer's blade, now in its owner's left hand, struck Zack comparably on his side. To the competitors, the result was clear enough: Zack's thrust had just barely connected ahead of Seifer's swing; the feeling of his baton pressing against its intended recipient coursed along Zack's arms like a grace note ahead of Seifer's landing against his obliques. 

On instinct, Zack rebounded and retreated from his hit; the rules of the Struggle dictated that after each point scored, a match was put on a quick pause, during which the point was declared by the referees (if not contested for review), and the combatants reset to begin another bout. This was, in the name of the spirit of the competition, a measure to dissuade participants from simply swinging endlessly at their opponent after landing a hit, and allowed both sides to refocus. 

Zack, like Seifer, was left shocked and dumbstruck. He hadn't expected the match to end the way it did; he had conditioned himself to leave his expectations of victory behind him when he entered the ring for a match. His heart pounded, racing from the sheer adrenaline of that last instance. It was a feeling which, for any other competitor, would have given way to elation and celebration. Even in the context of a training session, the average combatant would be joyous in their success... But Zack and Seifer weren't average combatants... To that extent, Zack had come to see at least shred of respect from Seifer's end, even if he didn't always verbalize it, and in turn, he respected Seifer as a competitor. 

Zack, just like Seifer, was leaving this spar knowing full well the score that would have to be settled in the Tournament. 

In the shocked disposition of his mind, still processing the match, Zack was unaware of either Seifer or his lackeys as they commented and quipped about the match. His gaze, thoughtful yet detached, drifted off to the far corner of the sandlot, where something peculiar caught his attention: a familiar, stern-faced visage, half-shrouded in the shadow of far alleyway, stood, glaring towards him with narrow eyes through a solitary bang of auburn hair. Perplexed, curious, somewhat nervous, and perhaps even afraid of the seeming apparition, Zack edged toward the alley. He took a handful of steps forward, hoping to get a better look. He rubbed his eyes; he couldn't believe them... It couldn't be [i]him[/i]... not after the years since... 

He opened his eyes only to see that the figure in the alleyway had seemingly vanished without trace or notice from anyone else. Disparaged, Zack breathed and sighed, and then took a knee to gather himself up. [color=f26522]"No. It couldn't have been,"[/color] he whispered. [color=f26522]"I'm just stressing is all. Seeing things."[/color]

[center][@Double], [@Stylobilly], [@Spectral], [@Bright_Ops][/center]