Fists hurtled toward her from every direction—wild, desperate, relentless. But Lara was a blur of movement, gliding between the blows with a grace that defied belief. Her footwork was poetry in motion, a hypnotic display of balance and agility, each step landing with precision and purpose.
To her attackers, she moved like a phantom, untouchable and elusive. Punches whistled past her ears, slicing through the air where she had stood a heartbeat before. It was as if time itself bent to her rhythm, allowing her to weave through the chaos with serene fluidity, a masterful dance amid madness.
Every movement she made was calculated, elegant—an artist crafting a deadly ballet on the battlefield. The mercenaries threw everything they had at her, only to strike empty air and each other. Their confusion deepened with every miss, frustration gnawing at the edges of their control.
