A straight punch snapped toward Chase's face, then became a backfist midway through the line. A knee came up toward Jace's ribs. An elbow shot backward without warning. He pivoted, dipped, lunged, and swung again in a storm of violent improvisation. Every strike came from a bad angle, a strange angle, an angle that should not have flowed into the next attack and somehow still did.
Chase slipped the first punch and nearly took the next across the jaw.
Jace blocked the knee, but Jagger's hand was already on her forearm, shoving it aside as a second fist drove toward Chase's throat.
Chase ducked, swore, and brought his guard up higher.
Jace tried to reset the distance.
Jagger gave her none.
