The two men engaged in a brutal, silent tango of death in the center of our bridal suite. No words were spoken. Only the heavy, ragged breathing and the dull thuds of flesh striking flesh echoed through the room. I pressed myself harder against the bedframe, my hands over my ears, watching the violent silhouettes dance in the moonlight.
Arnav was a master of close-quarters combat, but the assassin was heavy and wearing reinforced armor. The attacker managed to slip a hand into their tactical vest, pulling out a wicked, serrated combat knife. The blade caught the moonlight, flashing silver.
The assassin slashed wildly. Arnav dodged backward, but the tip of the blade tore through his white wedding shirt, leaving a dark, rapidly widening stain of crimson across his chest.
“Arnav!” the scream died in my throat.
Ignoring the wound, Arnav ducked under the next wild swing, grabbed the assassin by the tactical vest, and used the attacker’s own weight to slam them violently against the heavy oak wardrobe. The wood splintered with a loud crash.
Before the assassin could recover, Arnav locked his forearms around the man’s neck from behind, applying a lethal sleeper hold. The assassin thrashed wildly, their boots kicking against the floor, trying to find leverage, trying to reach the knife. But Arnav’s grip was an iron vice. Slowly, the attacker’s movements grew weaker, their limbs going limp, until finally, they slumped forward, completely unconscious or dead.
