Alfred spun them so he came out on top and threw Malik across the club, crashing into tables, shattering the glass they were made of. Malik quickly got to his feet, droplets of blood dripping down his face and over his chest and arms where his shirt had been torn. His wounds healed quickly, and he was back at Alfred who shifted into a fog of mist. “Stand up, Coward!” Malik hollered.
Alfred’s mist disappeared and swirled upstairs over the balcony. “I haven’t struck a nerve with you, have I?” he taunted and whooshed back downstairs in front of Malik, his hand at his throat, slowly backing him against a wall. “Because I would hate for you to die this way. It doesn’t do what you did to Katrina justice.”