Anticipation hung heavy in the air.
The bandana boss's command still resonated through the street, but it was Kelvin who responded.
He moved so fast that it became hard for anyone to even keep up with him.
The whoosh was the sound of displaced air, and the first slash was a silver arc that seemed to draw a line across the throats of the first two men. It was impossibly fast, a dance of deadly precision.
Before the third man could even register that his companions were collapsing, gurgling as they clutched their necks, Kelvin had already spun.
His second blade, held in a reverse grip, flashed upward, burying itself deep under the third man's armpit, severing muscle and artery.
The man's war cry died in a wet cough, his sword falling from a hand that had suddenly lost all feeling.
Kelvin kicked the dying man away, flicking the blood from his blades with a theatrical flourish.
He stood amidst the three twitching bodies, a cocky, almost feral grin plastered on his face.
