The knife spun once between Paul's fingers, the steel catching a faint slice of light from the alley. His eyes followed it, blank and distant. A muscle twitched near his mouth.
"Never thought I'd end up using cheap tricks," he whispered. The voice sounded like it didn't belong to him. "Guess this was it, huh."
The man in front of him flexed his shoulders, heavy arms shining with sweat. He was breathing hard, but steady. Bigger than Paul, older, the kind of man who'd done this before.
Across him, Paul stood still. Shoulders lowered, eyes half-lidded, no sign of pain or panic.
Only that strange emptiness.
This kid… the man thought, a shiver crawling down his neck. He doesn't even feel alive anymore.
He straightened, shifting his stance slightly. Boots pressing against the dirt. Muscles tight.
Round two.
He'd break this little freak in half if that's what it took to get answers.
He drew one sharp breath. Let's just hope I don't actually kill him.
Paul moved first.
One step forward. Barely a twitch.
Then, quick — too quick — the knife left his hand.
It spun fast, slicing through the cold air, metal glinting under the alley's dull yellow light. Each spin caught the flicker of the streetlamp, flashing white, white, white — like a heartbeat cutting through dark.
The man's eyes followed the blade. The spin, the shine, the line it drew through the air.
Focus narrowed to a single point.
Then—
Paul was gone.
The man blinked once, confused.
The sound of the knife cutting the air was still there, but Paul had vanished from where he stood.
Instinct kicked in.
He turned his head left—
There.
A flicker, a moving blur, low to the ground.
Paul sprinting. Fast.
His body barely visible in the dark, footsteps light but precise, rhythm matching the spin of the knife that was still flying straight ahead.
The knife came from the front.
Paul came from the side.
For a split second, it was perfect symmetry — both on a collision course with him.
He saw it.
He understood.
And for the first time, his brain whispered something close to fear.
Checkmate.
The knife was inches away.
He jerked his hand up, acting before thought could form.
The back of his hand smacked hard against the blade's handle.
A sharp metallic clang echoed in the narrow space.
The knife spun up, flung high into the air.
But Paul —
Paul was already there.
He hit the wall running, one foot planting against the cracked surface, using it like a springboard. His other leg shot out, twisting midair — the heel of his boot cutting through the space between them like a blade itself.
Impact.
It hit the man's head clean. A dull, thick thud.
The man stumbled sideways, catching himself against the wall with a heavy grunt. His vision blurred.
Paul didn't wait.
He dropped low, sliding on the pavement, leg sweeping around in a single, clean arc. His foot slammed into the back of the man's calf.
The man's knee hit the ground hard, a smack echoing across the alley.
Paul pivoted fast, body turning, and drove another kick straight into his chest.
The hit landed.
The man fell back, head snapping, the bald skull meeting concrete with a flat, final sound.
The light above flickered again.
Paul didn't stop to breathe.
He stepped forward once, smooth, calm — like he'd done this a thousand times before.
The knife, still spinning midair, fell right where it should.
Paul raised his hand.
Handle met palm.
Perfect.
No sound followed. Just the faint hum of the city, and Paul's slow, steady breathing.
He sat over the fallen man, the knife low in his grip, expression blank.
Everything — every move, every strike, every breath — had landed just like it was supposed to.
As if he wasn't fighting at all.
As if he was just following the lines of a scene already written.
Paul went straight for the man's neck.
No hesitation. No pause. Just pure, mechanical intent — like a clock ticking toward its end.
The knife glinted faintly under the pale light, drawing a thin silver line between him and his target.
He aimed to end it right there.
Fast. Clean.
But the man wasn't gone yet.
The surprise had thrown him before — the kick, the strikes, the speed — all of it had blurred together in the chaos.
But now, his body remembered what it was made for.
He came back to himself.
Both hands shot up, palms slamming against Paul's wrists, stopping the knife inches before it could sink into his throat.
Metal trembled between their grips.
The man's arms shook under the pressure. Paul's muscles tightened, veins crawling up his skin like coiled threads ready to snap.
The blade quivered, caught between two wills.
Paul's eyes locked on the man's.
Cold.
Flat.
Unblinking.
The man grunted, pushing back, forcing Paul's arms higher. The knife lifted — slow, resistant — away from the skin it was meant to cut.
Paul's jaw tightened. His teeth gritted together with an audible scrape. He shifted, bringing his left hand up to grab the knife handle too.
Now both hands pressed down.
More force.
More weight.
The blade dipped lower again, carving through the thin space of air between them.
It began to sink, slow but certain.
Both men's arms trembled violently.
Sweat dripped.
Every breath came sharp, heavy, rough.
It was no longer a fight — it was a war of pressure, of inches, of whoever slipped first.
Paul's body shook. His vision throbbed. The metal inched closer.
The man's pulse was wild under the blade's tip, a target beating like a drum.
The world seemed to fade out. No noise. No street. Just their strained breathing and the whisper of steel scraping through tension.
Paul's teeth bared.
"Die, you fucking bastard!"
The words tore out raw, cracked from somewhere deep inside. Even he didn't know why he said it. Maybe anger. Maybe release. Maybe because he'd come this far and it still wasn't enough.
His shoulders screamed with effort.
Every muscle burned, tearing itself apart to keep pushing.
And still the man resisted.
Paul's mind spat fragments of thought.
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why the fuck after all this… after everything.
And then, absurdly — Why the fuck are the bald ones always the problem?
He pushed harder. The knife slipped closer.
Just a few more inches. Just a little more.
For a moment, he thought he had it.
The man's arms buckled slightly.
The knife began to tilt toward victory.
Paul's lips pulled into a sharp grin.
Finally.
Then —
The man loosened.
It was quick, subtle. A sudden drop in resistance.
Paul's momentum threw him forward, closer.
The man caught that moment perfectly, jerking his body toward Paul — dragging him into his own pull.
The knife's edge brushed his skin but missed.
Paul stumbled, balance cracking like glass.
Then came the counter.
A heavy smash.
The man's head shot forward, connecting with Paul's forehead in a brutal collision.
A dull crack echoed.
Paul's world split open.
Buzzing. Ringing. The ground seemed to tilt beneath him. His skull throbbed, every nerve flaring white.
It felt like someone had hammered a nail straight between his eyes.
He staggered, grip faltering.
The knife slipped halfway loose.
The man seized the chance — his right hand snapping up, wrenching the handle from Paul's grasp.
He didn't hesitate.
Went straight for Paul's eyes.
At this range, there was nowhere to go. No time.
Paul didn't even flinch.
He raised his left arm instead.
The blade plunged in — slicing into flesh.
Blood spattered.
The man slipped.
Paul caught the knife with grazed hand.
Then his fist moved.
It wasn't thought — it was instinct.
A single, raw reaction.
His right hand smashed into the man's face.
The man's head dropped with the hit.
A dazed grunt escaped his throat.
Paul struck again.
Another thud.
The man's grip on the knife loosened completely.
Paul yanked it free. No pause. No thought.
He drove it straight into the man's left palm.
The sound was wet. Sharp.
The man screamed through gritted teeth, his body twitching under the pain.
Paul pinned him down, one foot pressing against his right arm, left hand crushing the man's neck by the ground.
He leaned closer. Breath ragged. Blood running down his wrist.
And then —
Another punch.
Straight into the man's jaw.
Then again.
And again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Paul didn't stop.
His hand was no longer a hand. It was a piston, a hammer, a tool following some unseen rhythm.
Each strike landed heavy, splitting skin, snapping bone, erasing the face beneath him piece by piece.
He wasn't thinking.
He wasn't feeling.
He wasn't there.
The knife glimmered faintly under the moonlight, still lodged in the man's palm.
Paul's left hand pressed harder against his throat, cutting off what breath remained.
His right hand kept swinging.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Until there was nothing left but the sound of fists meeting flesh, dull and wet.
Blood speckled across his shirt, his cheek, his neck.
The man's face was barely human anymore.
Paul's knuckles were split open, slick with red.
Then a faint groan slipped from the man's throat.
He froze.
Paul's breathing steadied.
The threads holding his body seemed to go slack.
Then slowly, almost gently, he let go.
He rose to his feet, breath shaking, and looked down at what he had made.
No emotion. No triumph.
Only silence.
It felt like the fight had ended hours ago — and he'd just...
Paul stood over the body for a long moment, head lowered, shoulders trembling just enough to show he was still human. His breaths came rough and uneven, scraping out of his throat like sandpaper. The only sound left in the alley was the drip of blood—slow, rhythmic, almost steady.
He finally looked down at his hands. His knuckles were torn open, red slicking down his wrist and drying at the edge of his sleeve. The knife was still wedged in the man's palm, the hilt angled upward like a gravestone marker.
Paul exhaled once, low and heavy, and turned away. His steps left dark prints behind him.
He found his hoodie lying a few feet away, half buried in dirt and glass. He crouched, spit the blood from his mouth onto the ground, and picked it up. The movement made his side ache, sharp and deep, but he didn't flinch. He wrapped the hoodie around his left hand, pulling the fabric tight around the wound until it soaked through. Blood seeped out fast—thick and dark, running like a river that had finally broken its dam.
He stood still for a moment, the air pressing down on him, cold and heavy. His breathing slowed, but his body didn't relax. The fight had emptied him, but something else—something he couldn't name—kept him standing.
His steps were uneven as he moved forward, dragging slightly, but he didn't stop. His shadow stretched long behind him, distorted by the dim streetlight overhead.
Game's already over, and no one knows if he won.
The night gave no answer. Only the low hum of the city breathing somewhere far away.
Then, beside the gate.
Roxy.
He had been standing there for a while now, frozen at the edge of the alley. He didn't remember how he got there. His brain couldn't fill in the blanks between walking and seeing.
What he saw wasn't Paul—not the Paul he'd talked with, laughed with, smoked with. What stood in front of him was something else. A thing wearing his friend's face, breathing slow like it was still learning how.
Roxy's eyes traced the scene—the broken body, the blood, the limp hand still twitching once before going still. His throat tightened. His skin felt cold.
He wanted to say something, anything, but the words didn't form. His body refused to move.
When Paul stopped beside him, Roxy's breath caught. The air felt too thick to swallow. His tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, but all that came out was a dry gulp.
He could smell blood on Paul. Not just on his clothes—but in the air around him.
Paul didn't look at him right away. He kept his eyes on the ground, the tone of his voice barely above a whisper when he finally spoke.
"Don't let that bastard die."
It was almost casual. But there was no life in it. No demand, no anger, just a flat instruction. Like someone leaving a note before walking out of the frame.
Roxy didn't answer. He couldn't. His brain was still stuttering, his body still catching up to what his eyes had seen.
He wanted to ask why. Wanted to ask what the hell just happened. Wanted to shake Paul and demand if this was all some kind of sick plan. But his arms stayed still at his sides.
He just watched Paul start to walk away.
And for a moment, he saw something strange in that walk—not pride, not victory, not even guilt. Just exhaustion. The kind that came from somewhere deeper than bone.
But will he ever answer?
Roxy didn't even realize he'd said it aloud.
Paul stopped then. Not turning fully, just enough to let his profile catch the faint light from the street. The air around them felt frozen.
He raised his hand slightly, blood still dripping from the wrapped hoodie, and tilted his head like he knew Roxy was watching.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—tired, weightless, fading.
"Till we meet again. In a different light."