Not enough.
The man flailed. Grabbed air.
Harry stepped inside his reach. Slid the shaft of the broom across the man's windpipe, tilted upward, and leveraged weight. The body resisted.
Then dropped.
He held it there. Long enough to make sure it wouldn't rise again. Then eased the weapon away like closing a door.
A breath. Shallow. Just one.
His steps were quiet. Measured. Not urgent. Not afraid.
The brute turned.
Snarled.
Charged.
Harry moved just enough.
A sidestep. The kind that spoke of geometry, not panic.
The broom was in his hands again before anyone saw it move.
First strike: handle to the solar plexus. A sharp jab—not brutal but placed. The air left the man's lungs in a wet wheeze.
Second: twist, reverse grip, shaft up into the jaw.
Third: a sweep to the back of the knees. Not to trip. To break.
The enhanced thug dropped to one knee. Roared.
Harry pivoted. The broom cracked across the clavicle. Something gave.
Still, the man rose.
Harry's face didn't change.
Final strike: downward, two-handed, broom angled like a guillotine across the base of the skull.
The man collapsed.
Alive. Barely.
Harry stepped back. Adjusted his grip. Waited.
Nothing.
He turned to the vendor, who stared up at him through a haze of blood and disbelief.
"Try not to bleed too much," Harry murmured. "It ruins the concrete."
Phones recorded. People gawked.