Kyle steadied himself against the wall. He took a deep breath to clear the last remnants of dizziness.
His fingers fumbled at his storage ring for a moment before pulling out the replica. An exact copy of the decorative sword he'd originally taken.
The weight felt wrong in his hands now, lifeless compared to the transformed blade now resting as a ring on his finger.
With careful steps, he returned to the display stand where the original had been.
The empty space seemed to accuse him, the velvet lining slightly indented from where the sword had rested.
He placed the replica down precisely, adjusting it until it sat at the same angle as before. His hands lingered for a second, making sure the switch wouldn't be noticed at a glance.
Satisfied, he turned away.
***
(Kyle POV - In the hallway of Warehouse - When he was fighting the Masked figure)
The mask figure's fist plowed into my gut with the force of a freight train.
