[Saya's sleeve tears beneath Diva's blade, the skin beneath it scored red. Staggering back is a reflex but one she wastes little time indulging, lunging forward to swing at Diva's exposed flank.]
[Until today that swing would have been less forceful, just slightly off target, uncertain. But the memory of nearly losing control, the free-falling sensation of being out of time, won't let Saya pretend any more. Whatever ambivalence she feels is shoved beneath the one belief that keeps her pressing the attack, again and again: that she has to end this at last.]