Zemin senses it before he can fully grasp it the strange tug at the corners of his lips. A smile, foolish and out of place, spreads across his face.
Why am I smiling? he wonders, a jolt of alarm shooting through him. He tries to will his mouth to stop, but it refuses to listen.
They circle around him, their boots crunching on the gravel. The tall one aims his pistol as if it's just another part of his arm.
"Alright, Shiko," the scarred seller sneers. "What's we do with him?"
Shiko exhales slowly, a mix of annoyance and something colder simmering beneath. "Why do I even have to deal with this—" He shrugs, then shakes his head, flatly. "No witnesses. Just kill him." His tone is blunt and to the point.
"Damn, Shiko—you're ice as shit," the tall one chuckles, more to ease the tension than out of genuine amusement.
Inside, Toon's mind is a chaotic storm. He wants to apologize wants to plead for mercy, to explain that he was just listening, just trying to survive. The thought forms but gets swallowed whole. Then, his mouth takes over.
"Kill me?" he says, his voice low and rough. "You all look so worn out. Let's give you a little excitement."
The words are harsh, a string of streetwise insults and taunts crafted for this exact moment the most disrespectful thing he can think of and they hit like boiling oil. The lean one's sneer falters. The scarred man curses under his breath. Even Shiko blinks, his eyes sharpening, a flash of irritation crossing his face.
They close in as one.
Every instinct screams for him to run. But Zemin's legs refuse to obey. His body feels disconnected, like strings being pulled by someone else, until the first fist connects. Pain erupts in his cheek, bright and red. For a moment, he tastes blood and panic, fully aware and terrified.
Then something inside him snaps.
His mouth moves again, this time with purpose. "This'll be fun," it says, calm and steady, that involuntary smile now cutting deeper. "It's been a while since I've torn through some trash ass fake punkin' gangsters. Come on give me a reason."
That voice isn't Toon's. It's not the frightened kid who'd probably drown in a puddle if given the choice. It's sharp, like a blade. It's Zemin's life echoing through someone else's throat.
The scar-faced man didn't think twice. He lunged forward like a dog desperate for scraps his hands flying in a chaotic flurry of rough, practiced strikes designed to intimidate and overpower someone weaker.
Zemin greeted them with a smile.
Not a smile of relief or humor, but that unsettling, thin smile that had appeared before—calm, unreadable, electric. The alley seemed to freeze for a split second as the first fist connected. Instead of crumbling, Zemin's arm rose at the exact angle the scar-faced man expected from a terrified kid.
He didn't flinch. He didn't panic. He absorbed the blow, the impact thudding into his forearm and reverberating like someone tapping a drum. The seller's knuckles jolted. He hissed, taken aback by the unexpected lack of reaction.
A second strike quicker, angrier whipped through the air. Zemin slid sideways, his hips pivoting, feet moving like whispers against the gritty ground. The seller's fist sliced past his cheek where Zemin's jaw had just been a heartbeat earlier. Zemin's head barely shifted; his pupils tracked with the focus of a predator.
He ducked low on the rebound, catching the man's balance with a fingertip to the sternum an almost casual touch that redirected the attacker's momentum outward like water flowing around a stone.
The scar-faced man stumbled, crashing straight into a brick wall, his face smashing against it with a sickening, wet thud.
Shiko and the other sellers stood there, jaws dropped, as the alley began to cool after the chaos they had just seen. The three men sprawled on the ground were a mess of blood and shattered pride.
"Dude really is from the streets he fights like he's been through it all," the tall seller remarked, a mix of awe and fear creeping into his voice.
"That doesn't mean anything to me," the scarred seller shot back, pushing himself up to his knees and flexing his fingers. He squared his shoulders, ready for whatever came next. "He's still weak in my eyes."
"Don't get too cocky. Ario, Ryoko, keep an eye out for bait. Small, trashy bait." Shiko lit another cigarette, flicking the ash into the grime like it was a statement.
Ario and Ryoko exchanged glances and nodded, their expressions sharpening. Zemin's smile remained unsettlingly thin, a dark glimmer in his eyes.
"Now that's the spirit," Zemin drawled, his voice lazy. "If you're truly from the streets, you don't flinch when some punk hits the wall. We break each other down until one of us is begging for his mom to come wipe his tears." His words dripped with both mockery and challenge.
"Man, this guy's a pain," Ryoko muttered under his breath.
"Yeah — let's take him down a notch," Ario grinned.
They moved as a unit.
Ario charged in like a battering ram, his fists swinging in wide, heavy arcs meant to finish things fast. Ryoko, smaller and quicker, darted in like a viper, ready to strike and confuse. Their strategy was clear: one would smash, the other would finish.
Ario's first punch aimed for Zemin's head. Zemin didn't flinch; he met the blow with an unsettling calm. He tilted his chin back just enough to let the knuckles graze his cheek a calculated move and used that contact to redirect Ario's momentum.
His hand slid down Ario's bicep, gripped his elbow, and with a sharp twist, the bigger man's shoulder gave way.
Bone cracked like a twig snapping. Ario howled and staggered back, but Zemin's grin only grew wider.
Ryoko burst in, quick and sharp, his blades glinting in his grip. Zemin stepped into the range of the knife with the grace of a predator, closing the gap where those knives became useless.
He pressed his shoulder against Ryoko's chest a close, crushing embrace and the kid let out a thin squeal as his breath escaped. Zemin's forearm slammed across Ryoko's throat, hard enough to rattle his teeth. The blade clattered uselessly onto the cobblestones as Ryoko gasped and choked for air.
They thought they could overwhelm him with sheer numbers. They were mistaken.
Ario roared back to life and swung again this time with a low, sweeping kick aimed at Zemin's knees. Zemin dropped his weight like a coiled spring, redirecting the sweep with a flick of his foot, then hooked Ario's ankle. He yanked hard. The big man toppled sideways, flinging his arms out to brace himself against a dumpster.
Zemin flowed with the motion, sliding behind Ario in a smooth arc and driving his heel into the small of Ario's back. The impact folded the big man in half; his ribs protested with wet snaps and sharp curses.
Gasping, Ryoko lashed out with quick palm strikes aimed to blind; Zemin stepped aside, letting the arms graze him, feeling the rush of air and sweat.
He countered with a sideways elbow that struck Ryoko's jaw like a cannon, sending the kid spinning into the wall. Ryoko's skull met the brick with a hollow crack. For a moment, he lay there, still.
Ario staggered to his feet, rage turning his eyes blood-red. He charged forward, power in every step. Zemin sensed the rhythm, timed the angle, and let the run close the distance. At the last moment, he pivoted, planting his palm against Ario's chest and channeling all his momentum into a single, devastating palm-heel that sent the man flying backward.
Ario didn't soar like in the movies; he folded, slid, and came to a stop with a wet clang against a stack of crates.