There is a knife, though it isn't the one in the Crow's rictus tight fist, or the one in her boot, or the one that's gone sprawling somewhere down the length of the alley. It's Flint's belt knife ripped free in the brief moment of luxury that John's vice grip affords. Turning in the hand, the dirk does as it's designed to do: thrusting. Driving with a harsh punch through leathers and fabrics and into the first soft flesh it can find. It does it a second time and a third before his leg crumples under him. Or John's hold collapses and so too does the Crow, and Flint merely twists to keep up with her and so be certain of the work. There on the uneven paving stones, his elbow draws back and then stabs in again. It makes for a vicious unrelenting shape in the barely there haze of moonlight, repetitive as the drive of the tide against some stubborn rock until over some muddled length of time he becomes abruptly aware there is nothing left worth battering.

Flint wrenches back. He nearly makes to rise from where he'd come to clumsily halfway straddle the dead Crow, and then instead merely twists to sits hard over down in the alley beside the corpse.