[h3][colour=efcc00]Archer “Griff” Griffin[/colour][/h3][hr]
There had been a man there. One second—a living, breathing, moving thing. The next? Gone. Griff stood motionless, his breath caught somewhere in his throat, his body suddenly unfamiliar to him. He felt rigid, like his limbs weren’t his own, like the very idea of movement had become something distant—an abstract concept his brain was struggling to recall.

It wasn’t just the brutality of it. It was the speed. The power. The sheer, unnatural force with which Nil’s Noble Arm had erased a human being from existence. There had been a man there. He was certain of it—he had seen him, registered him as a threat, prepared himself for another clash. And now there were only his legs left. His mind splintered into fragments, thoughts scattering in random directions, none of them helpful.

[i][color=efcc00]'Move. Move. You need to move.'[/color][/i] But his legs didn’t listen. His body remained frozen, his chest tightening, his breath too shallow, too fast.

[i][color=efcc00]'That wasn't normal.'

'You know that wasn't normal, right?'

'He was there. He was there. And now he's not.'[/color][/i]

His fingers twitched, curling slightly, his hands balling into unsteady fists. He felt like a marionette whose strings had been suddenly severed, his body waiting for a command that his brain couldn’t seem to deliver.

[i][color=efcc00]'What if it had been me?'[/color][/i]

The thought flared so violently in his mind that his stomach twisted. If Nil had decided, if the trajectory had been slightly different, if—no, he wasn’t finishing that thought. He needed to move. He needed to breathe.

A sudden impact hit his chest, jolting him just enough to break the paralysis. His glazed-over focus snapped downward. A handheld radio. It buzzed to life, crackling through bursts of static.

[color=7b8973]"—iff! Griff, are y—k?!"[/color]

The voice was familiar. Distant. Mikey. Griff’s throat was dry, his limbs still sluggish, his thoughts jumbled. He needed to snap out of it—needed to force himself back into the moment. His breath was coming too fast, his pulse hammering in his ears. Static crackled again.

[color=7b8973]"—your highness? Speci—gel here. I—watch—building—southwest."[/color]

His mind was slow, struggling to piece together fragments.

[i][color=efcc00]'Southwest… She left me?'[/color][/i]

[i][color=efcc00]'No. No, she shot across camp. She’s fine. She’s—'[/color][/i]

Another pause, another broken message.

[color=7b8973]"Christ—lot of them! Counting fo—technicals, tw—riders—perimeter breach."[/color]

Four. Twenty. The numbers weren’t clicking properly, weren’t fitting together in his mind the way they should. Griff sucked in a breath, rolled his shoulders, shaking the stiffness from his limbs. The battlefield was coming back into focus, piece by piece.

[color=7b8973]"Sor—leaving you—hind, Griff. Uh, ov—"[/color]

Leaving him behind. That was the part his brain latched onto, twisting the words in the fog of shock and adrenaline. Leaving him behind. He knew it wasn’t intentional, knew Mikey wasn’t saying it like that, but the thought coiled around his mind anyway. Something snapped inside him. Not fear—not anymore. Something hotter, sharper—the stubborn refusal to let this moment control him.

Griff exhaled sharply. Then, before he could let his thoughts spiral further, he pulled back his fist and punched himself straight in the jaw. The pain was instant. White-hot, blinding, perfect. His head jerked sideways, his lip splitting as the coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth, dripping onto his tongue. Good. That did it. The battlefield sharpened instantly.

The explosion hit next—a deep, rolling boom that roared through his bones, thick smoke curling through the air. Shrapnel clattered, dust kicked up. The technical was gone. Obliterated. He barely flinched.

His pulse was fire. His senses were steel.

His eyes flicked downward—two gun cases, dropped by Mikey. His fingers twitched once, a brief hesitation, but he already knew the answer before the thought even fully formed. No guns. No killing. But something was different. Something surged through him. Heat pooled in his veins, thrumming, as if something under his skin had woken up for the first time.

That’s when he felt it.

A pressure—no, a presence—coiling around his forearms, something settling, shifting, unfolding with the same unstoppable momentum rolling inside him.

[b]His Noble Arm. It was changing.[/b]

The bracers he had relied on—the ones that had always felt unfinished—weren’t just there anymore. They expanded, plating stretching and shifting over his skin, a seamless transition of molten metal reforming itself into something complete.

[b]Gauntlets.[/b] Full. Tangible. Ready.

His breath hitched. His heart roared. Then—movement. An attacker surged toward him, machete gleaming, eyes burning with murderous intent.

Griff didn’t hesitate.

His body moved before his mind did. A step forward—too fast, too smooth, too perfect—his foot hitting the ground heavier, more controlled than ever before. The attacker lunged—Griff’s arm snapped up, intercepting the strike without effort. Metal met metal—his gauntlet caught the blade—and for the first time, the strength behind his grip felt like his own.

His other fist came next. No thought. No delay. Pure, exhilarating instinct.

He swung—clean, decisive, brutal. The moment stretched and his knuckles crashed into the attacker’s face—bone shattered instantly. A sickening crunch. Blood exploded, spraying across the ground. The attacker’s head snapped back, his body crumpling before he even had a chance to scream as a sickening smile crept across Griff’s face.

Unconscious. Face in tatters. Done. Griff stood taller now. His chest rose and fell, controlled, steady. This was different. This was new. And it felt right. There was no time to process it—no time to question—only time to fight.

And he wasn’t holding back anymore.