Perhaps shockingly, the stomach he sinks his fist into isn't cold and hard like the statue sure fucking looks like it ought to be. Instead it's solid and warm, yielding like flesh and deforming like warm metal around his fist before he pulls it back, and the Hero - surely he's younger than Pratt, up this close - doesn't exhale at all. Doesn't even flinch.

Sure as fuck doesn't let go of Pratt's gun hand.

There's just a flicker of surprise in the blank stare for a few seconds, and then the faintest crease of his brow.

And then the knife gets twirled, its point now warm from its contact with Pratt's throat - and as the golden man pulls back, he flicks his wrist, and Pratt's throat gets sliced open like an apple.

But his jugular gets neatly avoided.