"...it corrupts." Perverts, destroys. Mimics without depth, the weeping of its wounds black. Lan Wangji cannot assist without disrupting Wrathion's hunt, yet a part of him itches with craving.

On the flooring, he throws the lattices of his braided cutting wire, aimed indiscreetly at the feet of Wrathion's twin, miring the creature and stalling its movements. He tugs once — again — sawing into its flesh, breaking its steps.

Help is not the same as sabotaging Wrathion's own progress. When the thing stumbles, fumbles and forfeits its footing. Lan Wangji may look away, the strain of his hands alone to illustrate he has broken with neutrality.

Above, the ceiling unspools like a broad, wide mouth. Perhaps it wishes to eat the bones of this creature.

"Even at such weakness, it threatens to overtake you." Be quick.