I turned a corner and saw them.
Four guys, dressed rough, blocking a man up against a wall. One had a knife. The infamous gang that had been causing trouble in the area lately. I recognized their tags from the news and walls.
I should've walked past. I wasn't some hero.
And honestly, my first thought wasn't to save the guy.
It was boredom.
I just wanted something—anything—to make my day less dull
So I stepped in.
"Hey," I called out, rolling my neck, cracking my knuckles. "Let him go. Let's have some fun instead."
They laughed. Called me crazy. But I was already moving.
The first guy rushed in—sloppy. I ducked and hit him clean in the jaw. He dropped.
Second guy came swinging wide—I blocked, elbowed him in the ribs, then kneed him down.
Third tried to stab me. I grabbed his wrist, twisted, and slammed him to the ground. Knife clattered away.
Fourth was more careful. I was tired by then, bleeding from a cut on my side I hadn't even noticed—but I still dropped him with a punch to the throat.
I stood there, chest heaving, the silence louder than the fight.
Then pain.
I looked down. Blood soaking through my shirt. One of them must've gotten me when I was distracted.
I tried to stay standing. But the world tilted. Everything felt slow, distant.
The guy I saved was yelling something. Sirens in the distance. But I couldn't hear them clearly.
Just darkness.
Then nothing.