The low kick came like a guillotine blade.

Shin met quadriceps with a wet, meaty crack—not a kick meant to look pretty, just to shred nerve and muscle. Thick Neck's leg folded like wet cardboard. He caught himself on the desk, snarling.

Phei kicked the same leg again. Same spot. Harder.

Thwack.

The muscle seized, deadened.

Again.

Thwack.

Again.

Thwack.

Each impact surgical, compounding, turning the leg into useless meat. Thick Neck's stance collapsed sideways, face contorted, trying to punch through the pain anyway—wild, desperate, off-balance.

Phei stepped inside the arc.

Too close for big arms to work.

Hand snapped to the back of Thick Neck's skull—fingers knotting in hair—yanked down while his knee drove up into solar plexus. Once. Air exploded out in a choked wheeze. Twice. Ribs flexed inward. Three times. Body folding like wet paper.

Then the knee lifted higher—crisp, upward arc—and smashed into Thick Neck's nose.

Cartilage gave with a sharp, wet crunch.

Blood sprayed in a bright arc. Eyes rolled white. Thick Neck dropped like a sack of wet cement, face-first, smearing crimson across the floor. Out cold before he landed.

Four seconds. Maybe less.

Wiry and Wrestler stared—breath ragged, faces slack. Their designated tank was leaking onto the tiles, and the kid they'd come to break wasn't even sweating.

"So," Phei said, turning slowly. "Who's next?"

They rushed together—Wiry high, Wrestler low—half-decent pincer if they'd been faster, smarter.

Phei didn't retreat.

He advanced—straight into the teeth of it.

At the last instant he twisted, letting Wrestler's tackle skim past while his forearm whipped across Wiry's throat—not a chop, a clean redirection. Wiry's own speed became the weapon; the clothesline spun him violently, feet tangling, crashing shoulder-first into a chair stack with a splintering crash.

Wrestler recovered faster—lunged again, arms wide for the clinch.

Phei met him halfway.

Dropped levels, slipped under the grab, hooked an arm around Wrestler's waist and lifted—not far, just enough—then drove forward, slamming him down onto the nearest desk. Wood groaned. Wrestler's back hit first, breath punched out in a sharp grunt.

Phei didn't pause.

He stepped over the gasping body, planted one foot on Wrestler's chest—pinning him like a bug—then pivoted to Wiry, who was just staggering up, blood trickling from a split lip.

Wiry swung—frantic overhand.

Phei caught the wrist mid-arc, twisted, yanked. Wiry's arm locked straight; Phei stepped in, drove an elbow into the exposed armpit—short, vicious, targeting nerve cluster. Wiry's arm went limp, useless. A second elbow cracked across his temple—controlled, not full power, just enough to ring bells and drop him to his knees.

Phei released the wrist.

Wiry toppled sideways, dazed, clutching his head.

Wrestler tried to rise—hands scrabbling at the desk edge.

Phei's foot pressed harder on his chest. Not crushing. Just heavy. Unmovable.

"Stay down," he said quietly.

Wrestler froze.

The room was suddenly very still.

Only Thick Neck's wet, bubbling breaths and the faint drip of blood.

Phei looked at them—one sprawled and bleeding, one kneeling and dazed, one pinned and wheezing—and shook his head once.

"You came to take something from me," he said, voice low, almost gentle. "All you did was remind me how little you ever could."

The wrestler relented at that, scrambling up, twisting—

Phei's kick slammed into his ribs mid-rise. A single, piston-like snap—shin to floating rib. Then another. Same spot. Bone gave with a muffled pop. The third landed heavier, deeper—something cracked wetly inside, cartilage shearing. Wrestler folded sideways with a choked gasp, air punched out in a bloody spray, curling fetal on the floor, wheezing through shattered breaths, done. Two down.

Wiry kid surged back up—tougher than he looked, face split and swelling, swinging wild haymakers now, rage overriding sense, trying to bury Phei under sheer volume.

Phei let him come.

Slipped left—fist grazed air. Slipped right—another missed by a whisper. The kid's shoulders were already dropping, footwork turning sloppy, lungs burning from panic and exertion. Every swing slower, heavier, more desperate.

Phei could have ended it thirty seconds ago. He waited.

Let the kid exhaust himself. Let him taste futility in every empty swing. Let him feel the truth sink in: he was punching shadows.

When the last, frantic overhand came looping in, Phei stepped inside—close enough to smell sweat and fear. Arm snaked around Wiry's neck in a flash—rear naked choke locked tight, forearm crushing carotid, bicep clamping like a vice. Other hand seized his own wrist. Squeezed.

Wiry's face flushed crimson. Then purple. Hands clawed at Phei's arm—nails raking skin, useless. Feet kicked, heels scraping linoleum. Eyes bulging. Six seconds. Body went slack—dead weight. Phei released. Wiry crumpled face-first beside Thick Neck.

Two were down again now.

The third—the one who'd hung back, circling, watching his crew get dismantled—stood frozen ten feet away. Just staring. At Phei. Standing calm in the wreckage of three unconscious bodies, pulse steady, not a hair out of place.

"Your choice," Phei said quietly. "Walk. Or join them."

The kid's eyes flicked to Derek.

Derek said nothing. Couldn't. Back welded to the wall, trying to melt through plaster, face grey-white, pupils blown to black coins.

The kid walked. Fast. Door banged open, banged shut.

Smart.

Now only Phei and Derek. And two broken boys leaking onto the floor.

Phei stepped over Thick Neck's sprawled form—casual, unhurried—closing the distance like a man walking through tall grass.

"So." Voice soft. Almost kind. "Where were we? Right. You were going to force me to hand over what you needed."

Derek's mouth worked. No sound.

"You know what's almost tragic?" Phei continued, stopping close enough that Derek could feel body heat. "I was going to help you."

Derek blinked. "W-what?"

"Had it all mapped. You come to me. Swallow pride. Ask. Maybe even choke out a sorry for the years you spent turning me into a bloodstain for sport. I give you just enough—tidbits, scraps—to make Renee back off. A clean trade. Your dignity for your life. Everyone walks away breathing."

"I—"

"But you didn't come humble." Phei's tone dropped, velvet over razor. "You came with meat. Came to take. Even now—back to the wall, friends bleeding—you couldn't lower yourself to ask the charity case for mercy. Couldn't bend that far."

"I—I'll ask—please—"

"Too late."

Derek flinched hard, expecting knuckles.

Instead Phei reached out—slow—straightened Derek's collar. Smoothed the rumpled shirt. Gentle. Almost tender.

"Now you get to learn what happens when the devil decides you're not worth the trouble."

"Phei—"

"Brett and Anderson will find you. Fifteen minutes. Maybe less. They're hunting. Furious. When they corner you—when they demand answers about the video, about Renee, about the secrets you were ready to sell—what do you say?"

Derek's face collapsed inward.

He couldn't tell the truth. The truth was insane. The truth was that he'd believed a fabricated video, panicked, come begging the wrong devil, and gotten his entire crew erased in under a minute. They'd never believe it. They'd see betrayal. They'd see blood.

"Please," Derek whispered, voice cracking. "Please—I'll do anything—"

"I know."

Phei turned. Stepped over the bodies like they were spilled books. Paused at the door.

"Eventually," he said without looking back, "you'll realize I'm the only one left who can pull you out of this fire. Brett and Anderson won't trust you again—no matter what story you spin. Your only exit runs through me."

He glanced over his shoulder.

Smiled—small, cold, final.

"When you're ready to beg properly—when you've got nothing left—you know where I'll be."

The door clicked shut.

Derek slid down the wall—legs giving out—shaking, surrounded by the wreckage of his pride and his power play.

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