The knife spun once between Paul's fingers, the steel catching a faint slice of light from the alley. His eyes followed it, blank and distant. A muscle twitched near his mouth.
"Never thought I'd end up using cheap tricks," he whispered. The voice sounded like it didn't belong to him. "Guess this was it, huh."
The man in front of him flexed his shoulders, heavy arms shining with sweat. He was breathing hard, but in better shape then Paul. Bigger than Paul. Much more experienced than Paul in this line of work.
Across him, Paul stood still. Shoulders lowered, eyes half-lidded, no sign of pain or panic.
Only that strange emptiness.
This kid… the man thought, a shiver crawling down his neck. He doesn't even feel alive anymore.
He straightened, shifting his stance slightly. Boots pressing against the dirt.
Round two.
He'd break this little freak in half if that's what it took to get answers.
He drew one sharp breath. Let's just hope I don't actually kill him.
Paul moved first.
One step forward. Barely a twitch.
Then, quick. Faster. The knife left his hand.
It spun fast, slicing through the cold air, tal glinting under the alley's dull yellow light. Each spin caught the flicker of the streetlamp, flashing white, white, white, like a heartbeat cutting through dark.
The man's eyes followed the blade. The spin, the shine, the line it drew through the air.
Focus narrowed to a single point.
Then Paul was gone.
The man blinked in confusion.
The sound of the knife cutting the air was still there, but Paul had vanished from where he stood.
Instinct kicked in. He turned his head left.
There.
A flicker, a moving blur, low to the ground.
Paul sprinting fast.
His body barely visible in the dark, footsteps light but precise, rhythm matching the spin of the knife that was still flying straight ahead.
The knife ca from the front.
Paul ca from the side.
For a split second, it was perfect symtry, both on a collision course with him.
He saw it, and understood it. But for the first ti, his brain whispered sothing close to fear.
Checkmate.
The knife was inches away.
He jerked his hand up, acting before thought could form.
The back of his hand smacked hard against the blade's handle. A sharp tallic clang echoed in the narrow space.
The knife spun up, flung high into the air.
But Paul.
Paul was already there.
He hit the wall running, one foot planting against the cracked surface, using it like a springboard. His other leg shot out, twisting midair, the heel of his boot cutting through the space between them like a blade itself.
Impact.
It hit the man's head clean. A dull, thick thud.
The man stumbled sideways, catching himself against the wall with a heavy grunt. His vision blurred.
Paul didn't wait.
He dropped low, sliding on the pavent, leg sweeping around in a single, clean arc. His foot slamd into the back of the man's calf.
The man's knee hit the ground hard, a smack echoing across the alley.
Paul pivoted fast, body turning, and drove another kick straight into his chest.
The hit landed.
The man fell back, head snapping, the bald skull eting concrete with a flat, final sound.
The light above flickered again.
Paul didn't stop to breathe.
He stepped forward once again calmly, like he'd done this a thousand tis before.
The knife, still spinning midair, fell right where it should.
Paul raised his hand.
The handle t the palm.
Perfect.
No sound followed. Just the faint hum of the city, and Paul's slow, steady breathing.
He sat over the fallen man, the knife low in his grip, expression blank.
Everything. Every move, every strike, every breath, had landed just like it was supposed to.
As if he wasn't fighting at all.
It was more like he was just following the lines of a scene already written.
Paul went straight for the man's neck.
No hesitation or pause, Just pure, chanical intent, like a clock ticking toward its end.
The knife glinted faintly under the pale light, drawing a thin silver line between him and his target.
He aid to end it right there.
Smooth and clean.
But the man wasn't gone yet.
The surprise had thrown him before. The kick, the strikes, the speed, all of it had blurred together in the chaos.
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But now, his body rembered what it was made for.
He ca back to himself.
Both hands shot up, palms slamming against Paul's wrists, stopping the knife inches before it could sink into his throat.
tal trembled between their grips.
The man's arms shook under the pressure. Paul's muscles tightened, veins crawling up his skin like coiled threads ready to snap.
The blade quivered, caught between two wills.
Paul's eyes locked on the man's.
Colder.
Unblinking.
The man grunted, pushing back, forcing Paul's arms higher. The knife lifted slowly, away from the skin it was ant to cut.
Paul's jaw tightened. His teeth gritted together with an audible scrape. He shifted, bringing his left hand up to grab the knife handle too.
Now both hands pressed down.
With force and weight.
The blade dipped lower again, carving through the thin space of air between them.
It began to sink, slow but certain.
Both n's arms trembled violently.
Sweat dripped.
Every breath ca sharp and rough.
It was no longer a fight. It was a war of pressure, of inches, of whoever slipped first.
Paul's body shook. His vision throbbed. The tal inched closer.
The man's pulse was wild under the blade's tip, a target beating like a drum.
The world seed to fade out. No noise. No street. Just their strained breathing and the whisper of steel scraping through tension.
Paul's teeth bared.
"Die, you fucking bastard!"
The words tore out raw, cracked from sowhere deep inside. Even he didn't know why he said it. Maybe anger. Maybe release. Maybe because he'd co this far and it still wasn't enough.
His shoulders scread with effort.
Every muscle burned, tearing itself apart to keep pushing.
And still the man resisted.
Paul's mind spat fragnts of thought.
Why? Why? Why? Why the fuck after all this… after everything.
And then, absurdly, "why the fuck are the bald ones always the problem?"
He pushed harder. The knife slipped closer.
Just a few more inches. Just a little more.
For a mont, he thought he had it.
The man's arms buckled slightly.
The knife began to tilt toward victory.
Paul's lips pulled into a sharp grin.
Finally,
Then, the man loosened.
It was quick. A sudden drop in resistance.
Paul's montum threw him forward, closer.
The man caught that mont perfectly, jerking his body toward Paul, dragging him into his own pull.
The knife's edge brushed his skin but missed.
Paul stumbled, his balance cracking like glass.
Then ca the counter.
A heavy smash.
The man's head shot forward, connecting with Paul's forehead in a brutal collision.
A dull crack echoed.
Paul's world split open.
Buzzing. Ringing. The ground seed to tilt beneath him. His skull throbbed, every nerve flaring white.
It felt like soone had hamred a nail straight between his eyes.
He staggered, grip faltering.
The knife slipped halfway loose.
The man seized the chance, his right hand snapping up, wrenching the handle from Paul's grasp.
He didn't hesitate. Went straight for Paul's eyes.
At this range, there was nowhere to go. No ti to think, but Paul didn't even flinch.
He raised his left arm instead.
The blade plunged in, slicing into flesh. Blood spattered.
The man slipped.
Paul caught the knife with a grazed hand.
Then his fist moved.
It wasn't a thought now, more like an instinct.
A single, raw reaction.
His right hand smashed into the man's face.
The man's head dropped with the hit.
A dazed grunt escaped his throat.
Paul struck again.
Another thud.
The man's grip on the knife loosened completely.
Paul yanked it free. Without pause, he drove it straight into the man's left palm.
The sound was wet. Sharp and clear.
The man scread through gritted teeth, his body twitching under the pain.
Paul pinned him down, one foot pressing against his right arm, left hand crushing the man's neck by the ground.
He leaned closer. Breath ragged. Blood running down his wrist.
And then another punch. Straight into the man's jaw.
Then again.
And again.
Again.
Again.
Paul didn't stop.
His hand was no longer a hand. It was a piston, a hamr, a tool following so unseen rhythm.
Each strike landed heavy, splitting skin, snapping bone, erasing the face beneath him piece by piece.
He wasn't thinking.
He wasn't feeling.
He wasn't there.
The knife glimred faintly under the moonlight, still lodged in the man's palm.
Paul's left hand pressed harder against his throat, cutting off what breath remained.
His right hand kept swinging.
Again and again, and again…
Until there was nothing left but the sound of fists eting flesh, dull and wet.
Blood speckled across his shirt, his cheek, his neck.
The man's face was barely human anymore.
Paul's knuckles were split open, slick with red.
Then a faint groan slipped from the man's throat.
He froze.
Paul's breathing steadied.
The threads holding his body seed to go slack.
Then slowly, almost gently, he let go.
He rose to his feet, breath shaking, and looked down at what he had made.
No emotion. No triumph.
Only silence.
It felt like the fight had ended hours ago, and he'd just...
Paul stood over the body for a long mont, head lowered, shoulders trembling just enough to show he was still human. His breaths ca rough and uneven, scraping out of his throat like sandpaper.
The only sound left in the alley was the drip of blood, slow and rhythmic.
He finally looked down at his hands. His knuckles were torn open, red slicking down his wrist and drying at the edge of his sleeve. The knife was still wedged in the man's palm, the hilt angled upward like a gravestone marker.
Paul exhaled once, low and heavy, and turned away. His steps left dark prints behind him.
He found his hoodie lying a few feet away, half buried in dirt and glass. He crouched, spit the blood from his mouth onto the ground, and picked it up.
The movent made his side ache, sharp and deep, but he didn't flinch. He wrapped the hoodie around his left hand, pulling the fabric tight around the wound until it soaked through. Blood seeped out fast, running like a river that had finally broken its dam.
He stood still for a mont, the air pressing down on him. His breathing slowed, but his body didn't relax. The fight had emptied him, but sothing else…. sothing he couldn't na kept him standing.
His steps were uneven as he moved forward, dragging slightly, but he didn't stop. His shadow stretched long behind him, distorted by the dim streetlight overhead.
The ga was already over, and no one knows if he won.
The night gave no answer. Only the low hum of the city breathing sowhere far away.
Then, beside the tal gate.
Roxy.
He had been standing there for a while now, frozen at the edge of the alley. He didn't rember how he got there. His brain couldn't fill in the blanks between walking and seeing.
What he saw wasn't Paul, not the Paul he'd talked with, laughed with, smoked with. What stood in front of him was sothing else. A thing wearing his friend's face, breathing slowly like it was still learning how.
Roxy's eyes traced the scene, the broken body, the blood, the limp hand still twitching once before going still. His throat tightened. His skin felt cold.
He wanted to say sothing, anything, but the words didn't form. His body refused to move.
When Paul stopped beside him, Roxy's breath caught. The air felt too thick to swallow. His tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, but all that ca out was a dry gulp.
He could sll blood on Paul. Not just on his clothes, but in the air around him.
Paul didn't look at him right away. He kept his eyes on the ground, the tone of his voice barely above a whisper when he finally spoke.
"Don't let that bastard die."
It was almost casual. But there was no life in it. No demand, no anger, just a flat instruction. Like soone leaving a note before walking out of the fra.
Roxy didn't answer. He couldn't. His brain was still stuttering, his body still catching up to what his eyes had seen.
He wanted to ask why?
He wanted to ask what the hell just happened. Wanted to shake Paul and demand if this was all so kind of sick plan. But his arms stayed still at his sides.
He just watched Paul start to walk away.
And for a mont, he saw sothing strange in that walk, not pride, not victory, not even guilt. Just exhaustion. Quiet, heavy, like a weight no one else could see.
But will he ever answer?
Roxy didn't even realize he'd said it aloud.
Paul stopped then. Not turning fully, just enough to let his profile catch the faint light from the street. The air around them felt frozen.
He raised his hand slightly, blood still dripping from the wrapped hoodie, and tilted his head like he knew Roxy was watching.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth— tired and restless, fading slowly.
"Till we et again, in a different light."
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