Tòumíng's eyes snapped open two minutes later.
The alley was still dark, still reeking of gunpowder and blood. Bob was still unconscious, breathing in ragged wheezes. Yellow Teeth wasn't breathing at all, his neck bent at that terrible angle. The other three were long gone.
Two minutes. He'd only been out for two minutes. Felt like hours.
Every part of his body screamed as he forced himself upright. The knife was still in his shoulder, a constant burning presence. Blood still leaked from fourteen holes in his torso, soaking through what remained of his designer hoodie. His ribs ground together with each breath.
But he could move. That was the important part.
Tòumíng stumbled out of the alley, hand pressed against his stomach trying to keep his insides from becoming outsides, and found his bike still locked where he'd left it. Small miracle. He fumbled with the lock, fingers slippery with blood, and eventually got it open.
Riding the bike was agony. Every pedal stroke sent fresh waves of pain through his body. Every bump in the road made the knife shift in his shoulder. Blood dripped from his wounds onto the bike frame, leaving a trail down the street that would make investigating this a lot easier for anyone who cared to look.
But Tòumíng didn't care. Couldn't afford to care. He just needed to get home. Needed to get to food. Twenty-four thousand calories. That would fix everything.
The ride back to Prefecture Zing Residence took fifteen minutes that felt like fifteen hours. His vision kept swimming. His hands kept slipping on the handlebars. At one point he nearly crashed into a parked car, swerving at the last second and sending fresh spikes of pain through his broken ribs.
But he made it.
Tòumíng dumped the bike at the rack without bothering to lock it—if someone stole it now, they'd earned it and stumbled into his building. Ground floor. Unit 11A. Door still unlocked from when he'd left. (Dumbass)
He burst into his apartment and made straight for the fridge, yanking it open with desperate urgency.
The contents were depressing: one stick of butter, some ketchup packets from various fast food places, and a burger that had been there since... actually he didn't remember buying a burger. It was stale, possibly growing things, definitely not safe to eat under normal circumstances.
"That's barely a thousand two hundred calories," Cupid observed. "You need twenty-four thousand."
Tòumíng didn't respond. Just grabbed the stick of butter, unwrapped it, and bit into it like an apple.
The texture was horrifying. Greasy, dense, coating his mouth in a film that made him want to vomit. The taste was pure fat, overwhelming and nauseating. But calories were calories.
He forced it down, gagging, his stomach immediately rebelling against the solid block of dairy fat.
"Oh god, that's disgusting," Cupid said. "Please tell me you're not—"
Tòumíng finished the butter stick, threw the wrapper aside, and ran to the cabinet. His hands shook as he grabbed the bottle he'd bought on impulse last week and never opened.
One gallon of olive oil. Extra virgin, cold-pressed, probably very healthy under normal circumstances.
He unscrewed the cap and started drinking.
The oil was thick, coating his throat, making him gag with every swallow. It tasted like liquidized olives mixed with regret. And because he had fourteen holes in his torso, the oil started leaking out almost immediately seeping from the bullet wounds, mixing with blood, creating a horrifying mixture that pooled on his kitchen floor.
But Tòumíng didn't stop. Couldn't stop. He tilted the jug back and chugged, his throat working mechanically, forcing down gallon after gallon of pure liquid fat while his body literally leaked it out the other side.
It took five minutes to finish the gallon. Five minutes of continuous drinking, gagging, nearly vomiting, but forcing it down anyway.
When the jug was empty, Tòumíng dropped it, stumbled to the couch, and checked his status.
METABOLIC HEALING - ENERGY ASSESSMENT
Current Stored Calories: 32,000
Required for Full Recovery: 24,000
STATUS: SUFFICIENT ENERGY - HEALING AVAILABLE
He collapsed onto the couch, blood and oil still leaking from his wounds, and activated the skill.
"AAAAAAAAGHHHHHHH!"
The scream tore out of his throat, raw and primal. The pain of getting shot was nothing compared to this. His body was rebuilding itself from the inside out, knitting together torn flesh, reconstructing shattered bone, expelling foreign objects.
Bullets started pushing out of his wounds. Not smoothly. Not gently. Forcing their way through healing tissue, tearing through skin that was trying to close around them. Fourteen bullets, one by one, expelled from his body and clattering onto the floor.
The knife in his shoulder flew out like it had been launched, spinning through the air and embedding itself in the wall across the room.
His ribs ground together, realigning, the broken edges fusing back together with sensations that made him want to pass out again.
His jaw clicked back into place with an audible pop.
The holes in his torso began to close. Slowly. So slowly. Muscle reconstructing fiber by fiber. Skin crawling across open wounds. Internal organs that had been perforated stitching themselves back together.
ESTIMATED HEALING TIME: 12 HOURS
"FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!"
Twelve hours of this. Twelve hours of continuous agony as his body unmade the damage and rebuilt itself. No anesthesia. No pain relief. Just raw biological reconstruction powered by olive oil and butter.
Tòumíng writhed on the couch, screaming, crying, begging for it to stop, but the healing continued relentlessly. Every nerve ending firing. Every cell dividing. Every wound closing with excruciating slowness.
The first hour was hell.
The second was worse.
By the third, his voice had given out from screaming.
By the sixth, he'd cycled through every possible position on the couch, trying to find one that hurt less, finding none.
By the ninth, he was just lying there, tears streaming down his face, making small whimpering sounds.
By the twelfth hour, finally, mercifully, the pain began to fade.
The wounds had closed. The bones had set. The internal damage had been repaired. His body had reconstructed itself from a state that should have been fatal into something functional again.
Tòumíng lay on the couch, covered in dried blood and olive oil, surrounded by expelled bullets and discarded clothing, breathing in ragged gasps.
Then he sat up.
Moved his arms. No pain. Bent his ribs. No grinding. Touched his face. Smooth, healed, no broken bones.
He stood on shaking legs and walked to the bathroom, flicking on the light.
The mirror showed someone he barely recognized. Still his face, but different. He lifted his destroyed, blood-soaked hoodie.
Scars. Lots of them. Fourteen circular scars from the bullet wounds, two irregular ones from the stab wounds, various other marks from broken ribs and internal trauma. His torso looked like a roadmap of violence.
But underneath the scars...
Abs. Defined abs. Not bodybuilder level, but visible muscle definition that definitely hadn't been there before. His entire core was more developed, more cut.
Tòumíng stared at his reflection, at the scars and the unexpected muscle definition, and grinned.
"Ooooh yeah."
He flexed experimentally. The abs became more defined.
"I'M RIPPED!"