There's a split second. Move or don't. Kahlil isn't sure if it's a conscious decision that he makes to hold his ground or if shock holds him in place, but he finds himself with the air knocked out of him and a hand closing up his throat.

Another man's cold features flash in front of him.

Panic has him trying to wrench Lucifer's arm away with both hands, unable to breath let alone breathe. Metal flashes in the pulsing corners of his vision, a drum beat hammering in his head. Legs kick, trying to hit at vulnerable points, but a strangely calm, logical part of his mind operating in the background knows he might as well be assaulting a boulder.

It was the same with Jath'ibaye.

One hand lets go of Lucifer's wrist. If the angel is paying any attention, he might sense the sizzle of something off in the air near that space, the same kind of burning ozone scent that comes with Kahlil's reappearances.

He might see the blade itself, jutting out of Kahlil's fingertips like a stiletto made of torn reality as he slashes it across Lucifer's chest.