John's awareness returned in a rush.
First came a tingling in his skull, sharp and strange, as if his nerves had been switched back on.
Then came images, flashes of faces and places he didn't know. Streets, homes, people laughing and crying.
They weren't his memories, yet they poured into his head all the same, fast and jarring.
Pain followed. Heavy, deep, and everywhere. His body screamed with the familiar weight of damage, the kind earned in fights that went badly.
Sound reached him next. At first it was only a low buzz, then muffled voices and movement.
He tried to open his eyes but couldn't force them fully yet. His ears caught fragments, words he couldn't understand, footsteps scraping nearby.
John steadied his breath and forced his body to respond, even as confusion pulled at him. He had been dead. He remembered the silenced shot, the cold floor. Yet here he was.
Three men stood over a groaning body on the ground, their voices low but sharp.
"This is getting out of hand," one said, restless and pacing. "The boss is starting to lose his patience."
"Forget patience," another replied. "His influence's slipping. People aren't scared anymore. They get loans, take beatings, then walk away like it's nothing."
The third man flipped a small knife in his hand, the blade catching a bit of light. "We can't kill them, sure. But maybe we start taking collateral when they don't pay." He dragged the flat of the blade across his finger in a slow, cutting gesture.
One of the others barked a short laugh. "You're a sick fuck."
"And if fingers aren't enough, we go to toes and then di—"
"Alright, we get it," one cut in, shaking his head. "But you're right. This ought to motivate them."
"So, who's doing the honors? Let's make our first example this poor bastard."
The man with the knife grinned. "Well, I suggested it. Guess I should try it out."
"Pussy," one of the others muttered with a smirk.
"Come on then, hold him up."
The two men bent down, grabbing the groaning figure under the arms and dragging him upright, his head hanging forward as blood dripped from his nose.
John was still fighting through the haze in his head, trying to make sense of what his body felt. His vision blurred, ears ringing, but then hands grabbed him, one on each arm, and hauled him upright.
His swollen eyes opened just enough to see a man grinning at him. The grin was thin and cruel, a knife turning lazily between the man's fingers.
"You see, boy," the man said, voice light but cold. "You've made us wait long enough. We can't go back empty-handed. So from now on, if we come and you don't have our money, we take a finger to calm the boss down."
The words reached John, but meaning lagged behind. He didn't know who these men were. He didn't know where he was. His head swam with confusion.
The two holding him forced his right hand down to the ground, splaying his fingers against the dirty floor.
John tensed and tried to pull back, but his body felt weak, unfamiliar. His arms had no strength.
The man with the knife crouched, grin never fading, and angled the blade over John's index finger.
Then the knife started to come down.
John's head cleared just enough for instinct to take over. As the blade hovered over his finger, he twisted his wrist and yanked hard, breaking the hold of the man on his right. The sudden jerk forced the one with the knife to stumble forward.
"Son of a—" the man hissed, shifting his grip and driving the knife straight at John's chest.
John's arm shot up out of reflex. The blade plunged through his palm instead, stopping inches short of his face. Pain exploded, but John didn't flinch.
Everything froze for a second, the thugs staring, shocked that he'd taken the stab head-on.
John's teeth clenched as he growled through the pain. Before the man could yank the knife free, John lunged forward and smashed his forehead into the man's nose. Bone cracked.
Using the same skewered hand, John swung back in a savage arc. The knife still buried in his palm caught one of the other men across the face. The tip drove into the thug's eye.
The man screamed and fell back clutching his face, blood pouring between his fingers.
John staggered, shaking but alive, the knife still sticking through his palm as the remaining thug cursed and stepped away in sudden fear.
The man with the shattered nose reeled back, clutching his face, blood spilling between his fingers.
The one with the ruined eye shrieked and stumbled, crashing into the small table behind him and knocking it over.
John turned toward the last thug, breathing hard. His palm was a bloody mess, the knife still buried straight through, but he raised it anyway, ready to swing again.
"You want more?" John rasped, voice hoarse but steady.
The uninjured thug froze, eyes wide, glancing from his bleeding partners to John still standing. "What the hell are you, kid?" he spat, but his voice wavered.
"Get him!" the one with the broken nose shouted, sounding more scared than angry.
"You get him!" the other snapped, panic breaking through.
The one with the ruined eye screamed again, clutching his face. That was enough. Fear finally overpowered their bravado.
"Forget this!" the last man cursed, stumbling back toward the door and dragging his injured friend with him. "He's crazy!"
They half-carried, half-pulled each other out of the small apartment. The man who'd lost the knife didn't even try to grab it back, he staggered out clutching his nose, blood soaking his shirt.
"This isn't over, kid!" one of them barked from the hall before the door slammed.
John stood still, breathing heavy, blood running down his arm. He didn't chase. He just stayed there until the sound of boots on stairs faded and silence filled the room again.
Only then did he collapse back onto the floor, groaning as the pain caught up and his head spun from blood loss and exhaustion.