Ghost Claw sighed, observing the remaining chaos with professional assessment. She did a quick headcount of the gang members still standing and conscious.
"Only about twenty left. I better kick some ass or the team will never let me hear the end of it."
She moved forward with purpose, her combat boots making deliberate sounds against the concrete floor. The remaining gang members had seen what happened to their companions, had watched the twins demolish people, watched Svetlana cave in a man's chest, watched Ben emerge pristine from a room full of screaming, and their earlier bravado had evaporated into pure survival instinct.
Ghost Claw stopped inches from one gangster, a heavyset guy holding a metal pipe with shaking hands. She didn't move. Just stood there. Staring at him through her gas mask.
The man was terrified, his grip on the pipe loosening, sweat pouring down his face.
But then.
something in his brain.
pride.
stupidity.
desperation.
made him decide that backing down would be worse than fighting.
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT, BITCH?!" He raised the metal pipe and swung it at Ghost Claw's head with everything he had.
Ghost Claw's hands came up in a blur, palms open. She double-slapped him, not across the face like a typical slap, but directly over both ears simultaneously. The cupped-palm technique created pressure waves that ruptured his eardrums instantly.
The man's eyes rolled back. The pipe clattered from his hands. He collapsed unconscious before his brain could even process the pain.
Ghost Claw stepped over his body and pulled out her handgun from a shoulder holster concealed under her tactical vest.
Tòumíng's eyes went wide. "Wait! I thought we weren't killing them!"
"Chill," Ghost Claw said, checking the magazine. "These are Think Tink The Tinkerer's rubber bullet ammunition. Non-lethal. Mostly."
Think Tink The Tinkerer, who'd apparently come back upstairs at some point, probably unable to resist watching the violence, ran up with an offended expression.
"The ACTUAL name is Jury Rig A-11.2!" he corrected, his voice carrying that familiar manic energy. "The sub-invention to my ceiling projectile system!"
Tòumíng looked confused. "Wait, what?"
Think Tink The Tinkerer gestured enthusiastically toward the ceiling above the staircase area. "The six-foot distance from the staircase to the first room contains approximately sixty-four projectiles hidden in the ceiling tiles! When activated, it rains sixty-four rubber bullets simultaneously in a concentrated area! Very effective for crowd control! Very painful but non-lethal! Well, mostly non-lethal. Depends on where they hit you."
Tòumíng looked up at the ceiling, trying to spot the hidden weapons. "Why don't we just lure them there and activate it? That'd end this fight instantly."
Think Tink The Tinkerer's expression shifted from enthusiastic to absolutely furious in a split second. "MAYBE IT'S BECAUSE YOU DRANK THE JET FUEL I USE TO POWER THE BUILDING AND THE WEAPONS!"
Ghost Claw's head snapped toward Tòumíng. "You drank WHAT now?"
Tòumíng waved dismissively, trying to deflect. "Long story. Not important. Focus on the fight."
Ghost Claw stared at him for a long moment, clearly filing this information away for a future conversation, then turned back to the remaining gang members and started shooting.
The rubber bullets weren't silent, each shot made a distinctive thwip sound followed by a meaty thud as the projectile connected with flesh.
The rounds had enough force to bruise, to break ribs if they hit right, to knock someone unconscious through sheer impact trauma without penetrating skin.
Ghost Claw's aim was surgical. She fired methodically, tracking moving targets with professional precision, putting rounds into center mass, shoulders, thighs, anywhere that would drop someone without causing permanent damage.
Ten gang members went down in rapid succession. Some clutched their ribs where the rubber bullets had connected. Others held their shoulders. All of them were either unconscious or too injured to continue fighting.
That left ten people still standing.
Ghost Claw called out, her voice carrying over the chaos.
"Tòumíng! Fall back! You've done enough!"
Then, louder, addressing the others: "MARCO! POLO! SVETLANA! The remaining ten are up for grabs!"
All three of them grinned simultaneously, predatory expressions that made the remaining gang members visibly recoil.
They charged forward as a coordinated unit.
Svetlana reached the first target, a tall, skinny guy who looked like he was reconsidering every life choice that had led to this moment. She grabbed his head with both hands, her long fingers wrapping around his skull with terrifying ease.
"I break neck now," she announced calmly and matter-of-factly, like she was commenting on the weather.
The man's eyes went wide with horror. "Wait, no, please—"
Quick twist. Not enough to kill, Svetlana had listened to Ghost Claw's earlier warning. but enough to paralyze from the neck down. The man went limp in her grip, his body completely unresponsive but his eyes still moving, still aware.
She set him down carefully, dusted off her hands like she'd just finished a minor chore, and skipped, actually skipped, daintily, toward her next victim.
Meanwhile, Marco and Polo had stopped in front of the eight remaining conscious gang members and were having a rapid conversation.
"How many you got total now?" Marco asked.
"Three from before, four just now. Seven total. You?"
"Same. Seven."
They looked at each other, then at the eight remaining targets, their competitive instincts kicking in immediately.
"First to knock out five wins," Polo said.
"Deal."
They charged.
Polo grabbed a particularly short gang member—maybe five-foot-four, stocky build—and lifted him bridal-style with surprising gentleness.
The man looked confused for a split second before Polo slammed him down across his raised knee, Bane-style, the impact driving all the air from the man's lungs and probably cracking several ribs.
Then Polo grabbed the unconscious body by both legs and used it as a weapon, swinging the limp form like a WWE folding chair to smack down two other gang members who'd been foolish enough to approach. Both went down in a tangle of limbs.
Marco grinned. It was finally time to use his custom move. The one he'd been practicing for months. The one he'd named himself.
"IT'S THE ANNIHILATORRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!" he screamed, his voice echoing through the hallway.
He backed up to get a running start, his feet finding purchase on the concrete. Then he launched himself forward and upward, his body becoming airborne, spinning horizontally in mid-flight.
Four separate kicks. Four different targets. All delivered while spinning in the air like some kind of human tornado.
The first kick caught a gang member in the jaw. The second hit another in the solar plexus. The third connected with someone's temple. The fourth drove into the last target's ribs with enough force to lift him off his feet.
All four men dropped simultaneously as Marco landed in a crouch, breathing hard from the exertion but grinning with satisfaction.
Polo had just finished delivering a quick, brutal elbow strike to the final conscious gang member's face, dropping him instantly.
The twins stood among the unconscious bodies and started counting.
"Three from the first wave, four from this wave," Marco tallied. "Seven total."
"Same," Polo confirmed. "Three first, four now. Seven."
They both looked around frantically, searching for any remaining gang members they might have missed, anyone still conscious who could break the tie.
Nothing. The hallway was filled with groaning, unconscious, or paralyzed gang members, but nobody was still actively fighting.
"SHIT!" they said in unison.
"We're STILL tied!" Marco's frustration was palpable.
"This is bullshit!" Polo kicked at an unconscious body in frustration. "There's gotta be someone left!"
They scanned the area desperately, looking for even one more target to settle their competition, but the fight was over. Yellow Teeth and his fifty-man gang had been completely demolished.
And the twins were still perfectly, infuriatingly tied at seven knockouts each.