Tòumíng knew he couldn't do the cool action movie thing. He wasn't some trained assassin who could snap a neck with a single fluid motion or deliver a precise karate chop to the perfect pressure point. He was just a nineteen-year-old miner with supernatural healing and a lot of anger issues. So he did what came naturally.
He grabbed the younger robber by the shoulders, spun him around, and drove his forehead directly into the guy's face.
The impact was brutal. Tòumíng felt his own skull crack, not fully break, but definitely fracture, the bone splintering under the force of the collision. Blood poured from the gash on his forehead, streaming down his face, dripping onto his shirt. But he was used to head injuries. They were practically a hobby at this point.
The younger robber wasn't so lucky. His nose caved in, cartilage crunching, blood spraying from his nostrils like a geyser. His eyes rolled back in his skull, his body going limp, and he crumpled to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
Tòumíng wiped the blood from his eyes with the back of his hand, shook his head to clear the stars dancing in his vision, and kept moving.
He ducked behind a shelving unit, his footsteps silent on the concrete floor. The remaining robbers were focused on their task, stuffing duffel bags with cocaine, shouting orders to each other. They didn't notice the shadow moving among them.
Another robber, this one older, was standing guard near the loading dock. Tòumíng crept up behind him, tapped him on the shoulder, and when the man turned—headbutt. The impact sent the robber staggering backward, his nose flattened, his eyes crossing. He dropped his weapon, clutched his face, and collapsed to the floor.
Tòumíng wiped his forehead again. The bleeding was getting worse. He'd probably need to heal soon, but that could wait. He had work to do.
He peeled off three more robbers with the same method—tap on the shoulder, turn, headbutt. Each time his own skull cracked a little more, each time the blood flowed a little faster, but each time the robber went down and stayed down. It wasn't elegant. It wasn't cool. But it was effective.
Then one of the robbers realized something was wrong.
"Hey," he called out, his voice carrying a note of confusion. "Where's Chen? Where's the kid with the acne? And where the hell is Scar?"
The other robbers looked around, their eyes scanning the warehouse. They started counting, their lips moving silently, their faces going pale as the numbers didn't add up.
"We started with twenty-three," one of them said slowly, his voice rising with panic. "Now there's only eighteen of us. Where the hell did five people go?"
The lead robber's head snapped toward the hostages. "DO A HEADCOUNT! NOW! I WANT TO KNOW IF ANYONE'S MISSING!"
One of the robbers, a guy with a weasel-like face and greedy eyes, nodded eagerly. He holstered his weapon and walked toward the hostages, his grin widening as he approached. He was clearly enjoying this assignment.
He started at the beginning of the line, counting each person with exaggerated slowness. "One... two... three..." He paused at a young woman, his hand reaching out to touch her face. "Four..." His fingers trailed down her cheek, across her neck, lingering on her collarbone. "Five..."
He moved to the next hostage, a middle-aged woman with short hair and terrified eyes. His hand found her shoulder, then slid down her arm, then across her chest. She flinched, trying to pull away, but he grabbed her wrist and held her in place.
"Come on, sweetheart," he said, his voice oily, mocking. "I'm just doing a headcount. No need to be so sensitive."
The woman whimpered, tears streaming down her face. The weasel-faced robber laughed and moved on.
He reached the third female hostage, a young woman in a business suit, her hands trembling at her sides. He crouched down in front of her, his eyes roaming over her body with obvious hunger. His hand found her knee, then her thigh, then crept higher, his fingers digging into the flesh of her leg.
"Please," the woman begged, her voice cracking. "Please stop. Don't touch me."
"Shh, shh, shh," he cooed, his fingers continuing their path upward. "Ladies, ladies. It's just a little teasing. No need to get so worked up."
He spent an obscenely long time "inspecting" her, his hands roaming over her body, his fingers finding every curve and crevice. She squirmed, tried to pull away, but he was stronger, his grip like iron.
Then he reached Lù Jī.
She was huddled in the corner, her small body trembling, her frilly white dress a stark contrast against the grimy concrete. Her eyes were wide with terror, her hands pressed against her chest, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
The weasel-faced robber's grin widened. He crouched down in front of her, his eyes raking over her form, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Well, well, well," he murmured. "What do we have here?"
"P-please," Lù Jī stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. "Please don't—"
He didn't listen. His hand shot out, grabbing her ankle, his fingers wrapping around the delicate bone. He pulled her leg toward him, exposing more of her thigh, and his other hand began creeping up her leg, beneath the hem of her dress.
Lù Jī's breath caught. Her body went rigid, her eyes wide with horror. "No, please, stop, I'm begging you—"
"Shut up," he said, his voice cold, dismissive. "Just stay still and this won't—"
She kicked.
It wasn't a conscious decision. It was pure reflex, pure panic, pure survival instinct. Her foot shot upward, the heel of her shoe connecting with the underside of his chin, the impact sending a shockwave through his skull.
But instead of flying backward like he should have, the robber just... stopped. His body went rigid, his eyes wide with shock, his mouth open in a silent scream. A thin line of blood appeared on his chin, then spread, dripping down his neck, staining his collar.
Lù Jī stared at him, confused. She hadn't hit him that hard. She shouldn't have—her eyes dropped to her shoe, and her breath caught in her throat.
The heel of her shoe was different. There was a small serrated blade, thin and sharp, protruding from the tip. It was almost invisible, designed to look like part of the shoe's structure. But it was there, and it had just—
She pulled her foot back, the blade sliding out of the robber's chin with a wet, sucking sound. The man's body slumped to the floor, his eyes still open, his expression frozen in shock.
"I—I didn't mean to—" Lù Jī's voice was shaking, her hands trembling. "I didn't know—I didn't—"
She looked at the blood. It was dripping from the robber's chin, pooling on the concrete, spreading in a dark red stain. The sight of it made her stomach turn, made her head spin, made something in the back of her mind snap.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—I didn't—"
The blood was spreading faster now, a pool of crimson that seemed to grow with each passing second. Lù Jī stared at it, her eyes wide, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
Then everything went black.