[ there's a second impact of hard knee digging into Ptou's gut, the press of gunbarrel against his right temple as metal digits squeeze heedless of the flesh ones plucking at them, enough to throttle and bruise but not quite enough to crush, not yet.

Warm breath inches above his face, and murmured words, in the same deadly calm that once wrapped them in Games long past, ones where pale hands and body and golden hair left yet dyed in the red of others. ]

Cast, turn, speak a Word, and I end you.