John recoils from those swinging claws, his edges eddying away like loose-woven golden thread. He is perfectly Agni's opposite: long-limbed and dextrous, flowing through the steam as billows of silk or the wisps of a jellyfish. It's difficult to track where he begins and ends. He is a tentacled thing, a tattered cloak, a golden migraine in constant motion.

And he had very little weaponry, compared to the razors and teeth on this beast. Entering Agni's reach is his only option. He coils in close to entangle both of the demon's legs, growling deep.

The first moment Agni catches him with a slash, his cloak cuts like flesh. The ichor of his blood is oilslick-iridescent, nearly luminous, and smells sharp as a lightning strike.