No words. No lag. This error does know him, and the realization quickens the enforcer's noise, quietly amused. Had he wiped it once already? The face doesn't match to any memories in access, but Rinzler knows better than to treat that as much guarantee.

He drops the mask, flame-red circuits flickering to life in silent congratulations for the guess. It won't matter—it won't live. Still, after cycles in the user world as just one [unknown] of many, the sight of its instinctive fear is more than satisfying. It's right, it's correct, an absent value slipping back into place where it belongs.

Rinzler is the Grid's enforcer.

And this creature is here to die.

The disk in his hand flares in time with the ISO's, hands meeting to split the blade to two white-red hums of violence. His hunch deepens to a crouch, stiff protocol trading for fluid readiness. Game on. Walls on either side, a hazard at his target's back, and the pretense of survival past him? It really is like the arena.

And just like the arena, Rinzler won't wait long. One disk slings out, the second on a lag, body twisting and inverting as the blades slice toward his prey from either side.