The yellow phantom moves like a flicker in the static, a half-formed god of violence trapped between frames of reality, and the red husk twitches, jerks, a meat-puppet wired to the wrong frequency, too slow, too human—then the kick comes, effortless, precise, a golden limb splitting the air like a guillotine blessed by some forgotten deity of the lost and damned, “KUNG FU YOU!” a war cry ripped from the throat of a dying sun, and in one swift arc the head is gone, severed clean, a crimson geyser painting the void with the last testimony of the body that forgot how to duck, nerves still firing, hands still grasping at the ghost of its own executioner, the corpse-dance of a thing that didn’t realize it was already dead.
