Phoenix Force

The weight of the sniper rifle settled comfortably in my hands, its cool metal pressing against my skin as if it had always belonged there. It wasn't just a weapon—it was an extension of me. A reflection of my precision, my patience, my calculated approach to every strike. This wasn't about brute force or reckless power. It was about control.

I turned to Joker, half-expecting a nod of approval, maybe even a rare word of praise. But, of course, he just smirked, that infuriatingly amused look never leaving his face.

"Alright," he said, flipping a knife effortlessly between his fingers, the silver blade catching the light. "Show me what you've got."

I blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

He tilted his head toward the rooftop's edge, his expression downright mischievous. "We're dueling."

My grip on the rifle tightened as I narrowed my eyes. "Is this your way of making sure I picked the right weapon?"

Joker let out a low chuckle, tossing the knife into the air and catching it without even looking. "Nah," he said, voice smooth, taunting. "It's my way of making sure you deserve it."

A challenge. A test.

Of course, he wouldn't just give me anything. I had to earn it.

Fine.

I squared my shoulders, exhaled slowly, and raised my rifle.

Challenge accepted.

The moment Joker issued the challenge, my instincts took over. My body moved before I had time to process the weight of what I was about to face. I dove behind a rusted ventilation unit, pressing my back against the cool metal as I brought my rifle up, steadying it against my shoulder. My breathing slowed. Calm. Measured. Every inhale and exhale aligned with my focus.

The rooftop stretched before me like a battlefield of steel and shadows. Joker was fast—faster than anyone I had ever faced—but speed meant nothing if I could predict his movements. Anticipation was my greatest weapon. All I needed was a fraction of a second, one mistake, one moment where he stepped into my sights.

Then, I saw it—a flicker of movement in my periphery. A subtle shift in the air, the briefest disturbance in the cityscape. My mind calculated the trajectory in an instant.

One shot. One kill.

I squeezed the trigger.

CRACK!

The bullet tore through the air, a precise and lethal strike aimed directly at Joker. For a split second, I was sure I had him. But then—

Something moved.

Not him. Something else.

A ripple of shifting darkness unfolded before Joker, a void-like presence swallowing my bullet before it could ever reach its target. One second my shot was perfect, the next it was gone, as if it had never existed.

My stomach dropped.

That wasn't normal. That wasn't possible.

Joker's low, amused laugh cut through the silence, sending a chill down my spine. "Gonna have to do better than that, kid."

I barely had a second to process what had happened before I realized—he was already moving.

Fast. Too fast.

I wrenched my rifle up, but he was closing in, the rooftop shrinking with every step.

No time to think. Just react.

I moved on instinct, rolling to the side just as a knife sliced through the air, missing my ear by mere inches. The blade embedded itself into the rooftop with a sharp thunk, the impact vibrating through the metal surface.

Joker was already gone.

The moment I tried to track him, he vanished, slipping through the scattered obstacles like a ghost. He moved without hesitation, his steps soundless, his presence more of a suggestion than something tangible. Every time I thought I had him, he was somewhere else, a flicker in the corner of my eye, a blur against the dim city lights.

I didn't hesitate.

I fired.

One shot—precise, aimed for where I knew he'd be next.

Two shots—adjusting for his movement, compensating for his speed.

Three shots—covering all possible angles, forcing him into a corner.

None of them landed.

Every single bullet vanished, swallowed by that same shifting, unnatural thing—a ripple of darkness that absorbed my attacks without a trace, as if the very air itself was consuming them. It wasn't just speed, wasn't just reflexes. This was something else.

I cursed under my breath, my mind racing. This wasn't a normal fight. This wasn't just skill or agility. Joker was using something beyond that—something that defied the rules of combat as I understood them.

But I didn't have time to figure it out.

Because in the next heartbeat, he was already closing the gap.

The next second, my instincts screamed at me to move. I barely had time to react before a blade sliced through the air, aimed directly for my chest. I threw myself backward, narrowly avoiding the razor-sharp edge as it cut through the space I had occupied just moments before.

Joker was relentless. His attacks were seamless, one flowing into the next with terrifying precision. There was no hesitation in his strikes, no wasted movement—just an unyielding, merciless pursuit.

I barely had time to reset my stance before another knife came at me from the opposite direction. I twisted sharply, dodging by the thinnest margin, but there was no room to breathe.

Another blade. Another strike.

This time, I had no choice. I threw my rifle up, using it as a shield.

CLANG!

The impact sent a violent tremor up my arms, rattling my bones. The sheer force behind the attack made it clear—Joker wasn't holding back.

I gritted my teeth and retaliated, driving the butt of my rifle into his ribs in a desperate attempt to force him back. He barely stumbled, but it was enough.

I took the opening and leapt away, trying to reset the distance between us. The rifle was my greatest strength—I needed space to use it properly.

But before I could even raise it to aim, another knife whistled through the air, cutting toward me with deadly accuracy.

I twisted mid-air, my body reacting before my mind could fully process the danger. The blade missed by a hair's breadth, slicing through the edge of my coat instead.

But Joker wasn't just aiming to make me dodge.

He was waiting.

The second my feet touched the ground, his fist slammed into my stomach.

The impact was brutal.

Air exploded from my lungs as I was sent flying backward, my boots scraping against the rough rooftop surface as I skidded across the ground. Pain flared through my ribs, sharp and unforgiving.

I barely had a moment to suck in a breath before he was on me again.

A knee smashed into my side. White-hot pain burst through my body. I gasped, instinct taking over as I rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the next strike that would have knocked me unconscious.

I couldn't keep up like this.

Joker thrived in close combat. Every second I spent fighting at this range was a second I was at a disadvantage. I needed space—needed distance—needed a way to force him back.

My mind raced, grasping for any advantage.

And then, I saw my opening.

I gripped my rifle and fired a shot into the rooftop at my feet.

The force of the shot sent up a burst of shattered concrete and dust, thick debris exploding into the air like a smokescreen. The cloud billowed between us, momentarily obscuring Joker's vision.

It wasn't much.

But it was enough.

I vanished into the smoke.

I forced my breathing to slow, pushing past the burning ache in my ribs. The pain was a distraction, a fleeting sensation that I had no time for. I needed to focus. I needed to think.

Joker might've been faster, stronger—unquestionably better in close combat. He was a phantom in motion, a blur of steel and shadow, his strikes calculated and merciless. But I wasn't a brawler. I wasn't built for close-range fights.

I was a sniper.

Distance was my domain. Precision was my strength. And right now, hidden in the veil of dust and darkness, I had the advantage.

My heart was steady. My pulse was controlled.

I scanned the rooftop with sharp, practiced eyes, tracking the faintest shifts in movement. Joker was still searching for me, prowling through the haze like a predator, but for once, he wasn't the one in control.

I moved with purpose, finding my position. My rifle was an extension of me, steady and unyielding as I aligned my shot. The barrel settled into place, the crosshairs locking onto him.

A single breath left my lips.

One shot. One kill.

CRACK!

The silence of the night was shattered by the sharp, thunderous crack of my rifle. The bullet tore through the air, fast and unerring, aimed directly at his skull—a clean, lethal strike.

And yet.

Before impact, the darkness around him pulsed, twisting unnaturally, and then—

The shadows swallowed my shot whole.

A cold shiver raced down my spine.

This wasn't just agility. This wasn't just evasive skill.

Joker wasn't dodging my bullets.

He was negating them.

I gritted my teeth, my grip tightening around my rifle.

What the hell is he?

Joker's voice cut through the night air, smooth and taunting. "Figured it out yet?"

I clenched my jaw, refusing to answer. Instead, I raised my rifle and fired—not directly at him this time, but at the ground near his feet.

The bullet struck concrete and ricocheted, curving up toward his back in a calculated strike.

For a split second, it looked like it would hit.

Then—

SHRRK!

The shadows around him pulsed again, shifting unnaturally, and just like before, the bullet vanished into nothingness.

I scowled.

Joker smirked, effortlessly flipping a knife between his fingers. "Neat trick, huh?"

I didn't reply. Words weren't going to win this fight.

Instead, I pulled a trick of my own.

Without hesitation, I fired twice in rapid succession—one shot aimed straight for him, the other slightly off-target.

The first bullet struck his shadow barrier, disappearing into its unnatural void.

The second bullet, however, never flew in a straight line.

I had calculated the heat currents in the air, bending the shot mid-flight. The moment his focus was on stopping the first, the second bullet arced around the barrier, closing in on him from an unexpected angle.

Joker's eyes flickered in surprise.

For the first time in this fight, I had caught him off guard.

But even that wasn't enough.

At the last possible second, he twisted his body just slightly, the bullet grazing his shoulder instead of hitting its mark. A thin cut formed, a small tear in his coat.

Joker glanced down at it, then chuckled. "That's new."

I didn't give him time to think.

I pushed forward, using the brief moment of distraction to my advantage. In one fluid motion, I shifted my grip on my rifle and swung it like a blunt weapon.

Joker barely managed to evade, tilting his head back just before the heavy stock could connect with his jaw. I kept moving, pressing the attack, forcing him onto the defensive.

For the first time in this fight—I was pushing him back.

But Joker was done playing.

The next time I swung, he ducked low, moving faster than I could react.

Then—

CRACK!

A knee slammed into my ribs.

Pain exploded through my chest, knocking the air from my lungs. My vision blurred for a fraction of a second, but it was all he needed.

Before I could recover, Joker grabbed the front of my collar.

And then he slammed me into the ground.

The world spun violently, and by the time my senses realigned, I felt the cold bite of steel press against my throat.

Joker was crouched over me, completely relaxed, as if this had all been effortless for him. His smirk never wavered, his breath steady.

He tapped the knife lightly against my skin, eyes glinting with amusement. "And that's game."

I lay there, still catching my breath, my entire body aching. I had lost.

Again.

Joker pulled the knife away with an almost lazy motion, stepping back as if the entire fight had been nothing more than a warm-up for him. His grin remained sharp, amused, but beneath it was something else—approval.

"Alright," he said, rolling his wrist as he flipped the knife effortlessly between his fingers. "I'll admit it—you're sharp. You read the battlefield well, adapted quicker than most. If it weren't for my little trick, you might've actually landed a hit."

I let out a slow breath, lowering my rifle as I forced my body to relax. My muscles still burned from the fight, my ribs aching from where he'd landed those brutal strikes. But pain wasn't what weighed on me.

It was frustration.

I had calculated every shot, adjusted my aim, accounted for every possible angle—yet none of it mattered. That shadow barrier of his had swallowed my bullets like they were nothing more than harmless sparks in the wind.

I frowned. "That ability… your shadows…"

Joker arched a brow, his smirk widening. "Trade secret."

I exhaled through my nose, my grip tightening around my rifle. That trick of his had turned every one of my shots into wasted efforts. And what was a sniper who couldn't hit their target? A bullet that couldn't land was useless.

Joker must have noticed the shift in my expression, because he clicked his tongue and shook his head. "You're thinking too small, kid."

He tossed his knife into the air, catching it by the hilt with effortless precision. His movements were smooth, unbothered, as if the fight hadn't even tired him.

"A sniper isn't just about pulling the trigger," he continued, spinning the blade between his fingers. "You've got good instincts, yeah—but instincts alone don't win fights. You need strategy. You need adaptability."

I clenched my jaw, staring down at my weapon.

A sniper wasn't just a long-range killer. It was about control—commanding the battlefield, bending the fight to their advantage. Yet here I was, bested in the very thing I was supposed to excel at.

This duel wasn't just a loss.

It was a wake-up call.

I wasn't ready. Not yet.

But I would be.