The blue hum beneath Arkan’s skin didn’t just fade; it recoiled like a wounded snake. The radioactive heat that had turned his veins into channels of molten lead cooled into a dull, throbbing ache that settled deep in his marrow. Before him, the Version 3 scout—the "pig-panther" nightmare—was no longer a predator. It was a steaming, twitching heap of cauterized flesh. Arkan’s strike hadn't just cut; it had liquidated.
Maya stood frozen against the mahogany tree, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. Her eyes were fixed on Arkan’s forearm, where the faint, swirling patterns of his tattoo were still pulsating with a dying, bioluminescent light.
"Arkan... your arm," she whispered, her voice trembling. "What... what was that? What did you do to it?"
Arkan didn't look at her. He couldn
