Now here's a portrait of a bastard, desperate. The body had hit the ground and was unmoving, and that alone was enough for Lev to take a deep breath and ready himself to leave. The bodyguard was no longer his priority; annoyance had cooled in the wake of success. He would get paid for his duties, and the money would go right back where it belonged: into the hands of his real employers, and likely funneled elsewhere for one gain or another. In his mind, the progression of events was simple. The target was dead. All he had to do was leave.

And then the demon decided to die.

Lev had done this sort of thing before. He wasn't proud of it, but he reckoned pride had nothing to do with the matter in all honesty; some people, with their backs to the wall, simply preferred death. He was the primary dealer of it. They'd take it and carelessly blow away on the wind, their souls elsewhere and their mind scattered within the cloud of ash.

Still. Familiarity did not detract from the oddity of the man's behavior. He had come off as an arrogant jackass most of the encounter, but a crafty one. The fact that he was now charging towards certain doom... Something about it didn't sit right with Lev. It didn't match his prior behavior. Maybe he had just become desperate. Maybe his employer was going to kill him for failing.

It was the last thought that triggered a single shred of compassion. Not much of it, mind you, but just enough for him to sigh behind his mask and ready himself. He straightened his posture, fixed his gaze, and steeled his body over for whatever was to come. If it was a trick, then it was a trick, and that shred of destructive compassion would be disregarded in the future. If it wasn't a trick, then that would be that. Another dead body to the innumerable list.

A left hook was thrown. Lev raised a hand to block it. One brush against the flesh, and that would be it. Done. Story over. Show cancelled. Black flames would do what they always did and gorge themselves on the man's very being. He was superb at close quarters combat; it would be no problem to get the man on his back, to take him down.

Except the flames didn't catch. His block did nothing, for nothing was really touching him.

A million thoughts crossed his mind as contact was seen by his eyes, but ignored by the world around him. He should have latched on. That should have been it. Yet, the fool was slipping through his fingers, and Lev's balance was failing him. Time passed too fast and too slow all at once.

He blinked, and he was on the ground. No footing. No purchase. Nothing to grab.

Cyka blyat. He took a sharp breath in, trying to grab a piece of his coat. He couldn't grab a hold of the earth. He wondered, did the same limitation apply to his clothing? If he could get a shard of ash, he could still make the bastard bleed before he did the assassin in - or, alternatively, before the demon ran off.

Either way, he was trying - and, in tandem, giving a single shred of credit to the demon for another well-played move.