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Morgan recognized the controlled aggression of someone with formal training—not the unrestrained violence of a street fighter or the technical precision of military combat, but something between those extremes.

Each movement suggested tactical knowledge applied with personal adaptation, formal instruction modified by practical experience.

The struggle carried them through her bedroom doorway into the hallway beyond, both combatants landing and receiving significant blows.

Morgan felt her lip split from a strike that partially penetrated her defense, tasted copper as blood warmed her mouth.

Her counterattack drove knuckles into her attacker's floating ribs with enough force to disrupt his breathing pattern, creating momentary advantage.

"This ends now," she said, voice steady despite her accelerated heart rate. "Last chance to surrender before this escalates beyond your control."

Something shifted in the vigilante's posture—a subtle change from calculated aggression to something more desperate, more unpredictable. "I won't be imprisoned," the mechanical voice declared. "My work is too important. Santiago Heights needs me to deliver the justice you've failed to provide."

The declaration preceded a sudden escalation in violence—a flurry of strikes designed not to subdue but to create openings for lethal follow-through.

Morgan recognized the tactical shift immediately, understood with cold clarity that her attacker had moved from attempted neutralization to committed elimination.

The vigilante had decided she would not survive this encounter.

Morgan's prison-honed instincts took command, defensive tactics transitioning to survival imperatives.

She drove her forearm into her attacker's throat, simultaneously sweeping his supporting leg to disrupt balance.

As they crashed together into her living room, Skunk's deep growl joined the chaos—the pitbull's protective instincts finally overriding his initial uncertainty about engaging in the violent confrontation.

The vigilante's hand emerged from his jacket, metallic gleam confirming Morgan's assessment of escalating threat. The revolver—likely the same .38 used in the Santiago Heights executions—swung toward her with lethal intent.

Time slowed to individual heartbeats. Morgan trapped the weapon hand with both of hers, redirecting the barrel away from both herself and Skunk while simultaneously driving her knee upward into her attacker's diaphragm.

The impact forced air from his lungs in an audible rush, creating momentary weakness she exploited to twist the revolver from his grasp.

The struggle for the weapon passed through several frantic seconds of contested control, both combatants fully aware that possession meant survival.

Morgan felt the smooth metal slide through her fingers once before she regained purchase, her prison-strengthened grip finally securing dominance.

The vigilante released the gun rather than allowing her to break his fingers through continued resistance, a tactical decision that acknowledged current defeat while preserving future capability.

But he was far from surrendering. The vigilante responded with renewed desperation, striking with his free hand, attempting to regain control of the situation slipping rapidly beyond his careful planning.

His elbow connected with Morgan's temple hard enough to send sparks across her vision, momentarily disorienting her without disrupting her grip on the captured weapon.

"You're no different from me," the mechanical voice accused, its artificial calm disturbed by labored breathing. "You seek justice when the system fails. You operate outside official channels when necessary. The only difference is the badge that excuses your actions."

The accusation struck with greater force than any physical blow, resonating with uncomfortable truth that Morgan had avoided examining too closely.

Her pursuit of Cordell operated at the edges of Bureau protocol.

Her investigation into his corruption had necessitated steps that bent rules when they didn't break them outright.

Was the vigilante seeing something in her that she'd refused to acknowledge in herself?

Morgan managed to create separation between them, the vigilante's revolver now secured in her control and oriented toward its owner. "Federal agent," she repeated, blood from her split lip punctuating each word. "On the ground, hands behind your head. Now."

Instead of compliance, the vigilante launched himself forward with reckless commitment—a tactical choice that eliminated middle ground, that forced lethal response by creating immediate threat.

Morgan recognized the decision in the microsecond before impact: her attacker had chosen death over capture, had committed to an action that left her no viable alternative.

The revolver discharged once, the sound deafening in the confined space of her living room.

The vigilante's forward momentum carried him into her despite the bullet's impact, driving them both into the coffee table which collapsed beneath their combined weight.

Glass shattered, wood splintered, and then stillness descended with shocking abruptness.