Mark sat there, legs sprawled, arms open wide like he was greeting an old friend. His scarred face twisted into something that might have been a smile but looked more like a wound.

I couldn't read him. Observation was cataloging details—elevated heart rate visible in his neck pulse, dilated pupils, slight tremor in his hands—but none of it coalesced into a clear picture. Psychological Insight kept hitting static, like trying to read someone whose internal logic had completely disconnected from reality. I doubt even Mark knew what he was thinking in this very moment. Regardless, I didn't need that skill to beat him in a fight.

"It's over, Mark," I said, keeping my weapon trained on him. "You surrender. You get a trial. Due process. Hell, you could probably plead insanity at this point. But it ends here. Now. Make your final choice. Surrender or die in a fight."

Mark's laughter bubbled up again, that same unhinged sound that had echoed through the intercoms. "Over? OVER? Reynard, this isn't over. This is just beginning! This is when it gets good!"

He stood slowly, and I tracked him with my weapon. Threat Prioritization was screaming warnings, but I couldn't identify the specific danger yet.

"You don't get it," Mark continued, taking a step toward me. "You never did. All this time, you thought we were enemies. Thought we were fighting for different things. But we're the same. The only difference is I'm honest about what we are."

"We're nothing alike," I said flatly.

"Aren't we?" Mark took another step. I should have fired. Should have stopped his approach. But something kept me waiting—maybe curiosity, maybe the need to understand what had broken inside him. "Enhanced. Powerful. Standing above everyone else because we can. Because the System made us superior."

"The System doesn't make people superior," I replied. "It just shows capabilities. What you do with those capabilities—how you treat people who don't have them—that's what matters."

"Pretty words," Mark said, still advancing. "But empty. Deep down, you know the truth. You know that we're better. That we deserve to rule. That—"

His hand moved. Fast. Too fast for someone who'd been acting unstable and unfocused.

Blade. Where the hell had he gotten a blade? And why were my skills so weak at analyzing him?

Reflex Calibration made me dodge left, the knife whistling past where my throat had been milliseconds before. The movement was smooth, practiced, nothing like the manic energy he'd been displaying.

I fired—three shots where he'd been standing—but he was already moving, combat roll that put him behind one of the equipment banks.

"THERE IT IS!" Mark's voice echoed from behind cover, delighted. "There's the real Reynard! Not the bleeding heart. Not the revolutionary! The fighter! The survivor! The one who takes what he needs!"

I circled, weapon tracking potential exit points. Tactical Firearm Handling kept my aim steady, Combat Movement Efficiency optimized my positioning.

Mark emerged from a different angle than expected, knife leading. I deflected with my weapon's barrel, striking his wrist with controlled force. The knife clattered away across the floor.

But he'd expected that. Used my deflection to close distance, his elbow driving toward my face.

Defensive Positioning adjusted my stance. The elbow hit my raised forearm instead of my head. I countered with a knee toward his midsection.

He twisted, taking the impact on his hip instead of soft organs. Grapple Flow Control from my MMA job kicked in, trying to use his momentum to control him.

But Mark knew grappling too. His Job Switcher title meant he'd probably acquired MMA Fighter or something similar. He reversed my attempt, throwing his weight into a hip toss.

I hit the ground hard, rolling immediately to avoid follow-up strikes. Came up in a crouch, weapon tracking him again.

Mark was grinning. Not the manic grin from before. Something colder. More focused.

"You're good," he said, circling opposite my direction. "Really good. All those jobs. All those skills. Hugo's legacy made manifest."

"Hugo's legacy is dead," I said, matching his movement. "Just like his philosophy. Just like you're about to be."

"Am I?" Mark lunged again, this time going low, trying to sweep my legs.

Explosive Footwork carried me back and away. I fired—controlled bursts—but Mark was moving unpredictably, making himself a difficult target.

One round caught his shoulder. He grunted but didn't slow, closing distance again with strikes that mixed boxing, MMA, and what looked like military combat training.

Adaptive Countering read the patterns, helped me defend, but Mark kept switching styles mid-combination. His job title at work—probably cycling through different combat jobs to keep me off-balance.

A jab got through my guard, catching my cheek. A kick to my leg made me adjust weight distribution. He was testing defenses, probing for weaknesses.

I dropped my weapon—in this close, it was more liability than asset—and committed fully to hand-to-hand.

Hand-to-Hand Combat combined with all the skills I'd accumulated. Boxing precision. MMA versatility. Soldier tactics. Bodyguard protection instincts.

We traded blows in the space between equipment racks. His scarred face twisted with effort and something that might have been joy. My focus narrowed to the immediate—block, counter, advance, retreat, exploit opening.

He switched to what looked like Muay Thai. But I couldn't tell if his fighting style changed or he actually changed his job. I need a moment to use Scan, but he's not giving one to me. Elbows and knees with devastating force. Pain Resistance kept me functional when hits landed, but they still hurt. Still did damage.

I countered with boxer combinations. Jab. Hook. Building rhythm. Making him respond to my patterns instead of imposing his own.

But he adapted. Switched again. Now it was something that looked like Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. Trying to bring the fight to the ground where his grappling could dominate.

Grapple Flow Control met his attempts, keeping the fight standing. We locked up, both trying to off-balance the other. Strength against strength. Skill against skill.

I got leverage. Hip throw that sent him into a bank of monitors. Glass shattered. Sparks flew. He rolled through it, coming up with another knife—where the hell was he keeping these?—and came at me again.

Threat Interception identified the blade's trajectory. I caught his wrist, twisted, applied pressure to the joint. The knife dropped.

My other hand drove a palm strike into his solar plexus. Precision Strikes making it count. He doubled over, gasping.

I should have finished it then. Should have put him down permanently.

But Instinct was screaming again. Warning that something was wrong. That this was too easy.

Mark straightened faster than someone with that injury should. His knee drove up toward my face.

I blocked but the force was wrong. Too much power. Like he'd switched to a strength-focused job mid-movement.

His follow-up came immediately—a spinning backfist that I partially blocked but still rocked me backward.

He pressed the advantage, combinations coming faster now. Switching jobs with every other strike. One moment fighting like a boxer. Next moment like a soldier. Then back to MMA. Then something else entirely.

It was disorienting. Every time I adapted to one style, he switched. Every time I countered one approach, he became someone else.

But he was tiring. I could see it in the slight hesitations. The marginally slower reactions. Job Switcher was versatile but it meant he couldn't maintain the endurance bonuses of any single job. Couldn't stack skills the way my portfolios allowed.

I, on the other hand, had Superior Endurance. Had skill combinations that worked together rather than against each other. Had the advantage of genuine integration rather than constant switching.

The fight was shifting in my favor. Slowly but undeniably.

Mark seemed to realize it too. His attacks became more desperate. More wild. The cold focus from earlier giving way to the mania I'd seen before.

"You can't win!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "You're just Hugo's son! Just his creation! Everything you are comes from him!"

"I'm nothing like him," I said, blocking another combination. "Nothing like you."

I found my opening. His guard dropped fractionally after a missed hook. Adaptive Countering guided my response—a straight punch that connected with his jaw. Solid. Clean.

Mark stumbled backward, hitting another equipment bank. Blood ran from his split lip.

He looked dazed. Beaten. The fight draining out of him as reality set in.

Even Hugo was a bigger challenge than this, I thought, already moving to secure him. After everything, after all the buildup, Mark's just—

Pain exploded across my face.

A punch I hadn't seen coming. Hadn't predicted. Hadn't defended against because I'd been too confident, too certain the fight was over.

I staggered, vision swimming, tasting blood.

Pain Resistance kept me from going down, but the hit had been devastating. Perfectly placed. Perfectly timed.

I blinked, trying to clear my vision, Observation scrambling to understand what had just happened.

Mark stood there, no longer looking dazed. No longer looking beaten.

Looking focused. Determined. And wearing an expression that suggested the real fight was just beginning.