Flesh parts way for me. ( The warrior's path, mere preference, or a blade well honed. Same difference, for all they battle in words and Stephen Strange thinks himself perhaps less foolish for pointing his finger first.

It will come away blooded, he anticipates. Honest men always fall down.

But not here, now. This moment can linger like taut rope between them, brittle before h8ard pulls. He steers them, cutting through rain-trodden pathways, one dark alley, then the isolated next. )

If your dead toiled beneath chains, would you not wish them loose? ( At least for a moment, a breath. ) I am not so undisciplined to ask the absurd.

( Perhaps too much opposition that he has witnessed, surviving. )