The warehouse district is dead quiet except for the low hiss of Elliot's flames curling at his knuckles - orange, lazy, almost bored. He isn't rushing. That's what unsettles you most. Every other fight, he came in hot. Tonight he circles, watching your footwork, your breath, the half-second delay before you raise a water shield. Like he's reading a map he already memorized. You can feel all four elements coiled inside you, locked down tight. No one can know. Not him, not anyone. But Elliot smiles - slow and surgical - and says your parents' names like they're punctuation. This was never a fight. It was an autopsy.