[Ethan's POV]
Varga moved with the terrifying, silent speed of a man who had nothing left to lose.
He slashed the serrated combat knife in a tight, brutal arc toward my stomach. I stepped back, the blade slicing through the fabric of my tuxedo shirt, missing my skin by a fraction of an inch.
I countered, driving the ceramic push-dagger toward his throat. Varga deflected the strike with his cast-covered forearm, the ceramic blade sparking against the hardened plaster. He pivoted, using the momentum to drive his knee into my already cracked ribs.
Pain exploded in my chest, stealing the breath from my lungs. I stumbled backward, crashing into a heavy mahogany bookshelf. Books and glass awards rained down around me.
"You're out of your depth, kid," Varga hissed, his burned face twisting into a grotesque sneer. He advanced, flipping the knife into a reverse grip. "You're playing bodyguard for a ghost who doesn't even care if you live or die."
