PHASMA vs PIETRO MAXIMOFF
The kick was enough to leave her breathless and Phasma knew the feeling of cracked ribs. One more hit like that risked any number of internal injuries - including a punctured lung - bleeding, things you didn't come back from without medical intervention. All this over a bag that may or may not even be useful to them. But that was the game, wasn't it? Kill or be killed, survival of the luckiest and most ruthless. What was their breaking point and how much would any of them give, or take, for a few more moments pushing onward? Some people shattered in circumstances like these, while others were forged.
To say that it meant nothing to her anymore would have implied that it - killing - had ever meant anything more than pure survival in the first place. It hadn't. She'd done far worse than this and, in all likelihood, she would again. In her mind, this was a mercy. This meant that this boy wouldn't have to suffer this trial, wouldn't have to face whatever was waiting here for the rest of them.
A dozen different options sped through her mind and while they were shuffling themselves into order, Phasma's hand found its way to the knife on little more than instinct alone. She didn't even bother to right her grip, she just brought it down hard into the side of Pietro's neck. Quick, clean, as close to painless as anyone there was going to get. "You'll be grateful for this later," she said as she slid the knife back into place and wrenched the bag free of his grip. It was impossible to tell if anyone had even seen the movement it happened so fast. Phasma stood and quickly backed away from the fray and towards one of the dark recesses of the cave.