Eleven minutes in, Kai's shoulder submitted its final notice.
Aaron's last combination found it three times in sequence, and the third time the attempt to redirect produced nothing — the arm having made its decision independently. Kai went down on his side and stayed there, one arm beneath him, breathing.
Aaron stood over him. His own ear was still ringing from earlier, his face a topographical record of the fight.
"Good fight," he said.
"Good fight," Kai said. He didn't try to get up.
Aaron turned.
He had two seconds to read the room before the awareness arrived collectively: fewer bodies standing, the geometry simplified. He looked at the four of them — Zeke, Michael, Anton, Jude — and performed the arithmetic.
"I'm going to need help," he said, to no one in particular.
"Yes," Jude said, and hit him cleanly in the back of the head.
Aaron sat down. Looked up at Jude.
"That was—"
"Efficient," Jude shrugged.
Aaron considered this for a moment.
