How About Seven? ✔

17. Armada

He was standing a few feet away. Just standing there, out in the open, on the street I had just walked on to get to where I was now. The usual get-up, black as night. Mask, gloves, clothing. Check.

He held my gaze through the sunglasses for a few moments. Then he walked off, cool as a cucumber. Separating two blocks of apartments was this small alley and he took that. It went to the back street, a dirty place of trash and junk.

I didn't even hesitate. I had defeated him last time, I could do it again. It was clear he wasn't going to leave me alone, so I might as well take every chance I can get to expose him.

He was standing next to a dumpster, arms behind his back, feet planted shoulder-width apart.

The moment I came into view he took off at a sprint, charging at me. I managed to dodge his attack - until his left hand came up swinging. With a pair of very practical steel scissors.

The tip of the scissors sliced my cheek. I snarled and leapt backwards, touching the wound. Blood.

B-b-but I have a grand social function coming up! Sob sob!

I narrowed my eyes. He was getting serious. Well then, so should I. I reached a hand under my shirt and pulled out my knife. It was a hunting knife, made of serrated brass with a cherrywood hilt. In a lazy, ostentatious gesture I twirled it round my fingers.

"You've upped your game," was all I said before I dashed forward to strike.

The knife whipped and arced in a blur. The first few strikes missed, but at my fourth attempt he couldn't dodge in time. The tip of the blade nicked the bridge of his sunglasses and sent them flying away from his face. 

He ducked his head low immediately, his right hand coming up to his face, covering his eyes. The penknife remained pointed my way. He still had his face mask on, and it was only his eyes that were exposed. 

"Giving up yet?" I asked. "I can kill you, you know. I mean, I have a hunting knife. You have scissors. And really, though I commend you on your ingenuity of using household items - "

He growled and lunged. I gave a light hop back and ducked in below, dealing a strong blow to his stomach with the hilt of my knife, before finishing with an uppercut.

He reeled backwards. I twirled my knife. "Now now. It's rude to interrupt someone when they're speaking . . . pretty boy," I added for extra measure.

Ahaha, he really doesn't like that.

He lunged again. He was like a clumsy, enraged bull. Impulsive hot blood. The scissors swiped wildly, almost getting me a second time. Emphasis on the almost. I evaded it and executed a stomping kick. It missed, barely, and I followed up with a back swing kick. He dodged that too, but by then he was backed up to the dumpster, and I punched him several times. 

Several violent times. 

He could have blocked my attacks. Or at least defended his torso. He did try, but he only used one hand, the one holding the scissors, and one hand allowed too much gaps for me to make contact with skin.

His left hand remained, persistently and stubbornly, hovering over his eyes. 

Not allowing me to see. 

He will rather risk the pain and hurt, than letting me see his eyes.

I paused for a fraction of a second and he sidestepped, fast, away and out of my reach. Hand still covering his eyes. I narrowed mine.

And I asked, "Do I know you?"

No reply. No movement. No gesture.

I went on. "You don't let me see your eyes. You don't speak. Not even to swear. And you're not a mute, because you can grunt from pain. You just don't speak. So there's only one explanation.