Elijah stood in the doorway of his apartment, his body a statue carved from flesh and bone, perfectly still except for the subtle rise and fall of his chest with each measured breath. His eyes remained open but unseeing, pupils fixed at some middle distance that registered nothing of the physical world before him. His posture was upright but relaxed, arms hanging loosely at his sides, weight distributed evenly on both feet—the stance of someone not preparing for combat, not anticipating threat, simply... existing in a state of blank presence.
The fluorescent lights of the hallway cast harsh shadows across his face, emphasizing the emptiness in his expression. There was no tension in his jaw, no furrow in his brow, no tightness around his eyes. Just smooth, neutral blankness, as if his consciousness had been carefully extracted and what remained was merely the shell that housed it.
The five thugs arranged in their semicircle studied him with varying degrees of confusion and amusement. The silence stretched for several long seconds, broken only by the distant hum of the building's ventilation system and the muffled sounds of other apartments—a television playing somewhere, a dog barking, the clatter of dishes being washed.
The first thug to speak was a rough-haired man with a baseball bat. His hair stuck out at odd angles, unwashed and unkempt, giving him the appearance of someone who'd just rolled out of bed—or more likely, someone who simply didn't care about grooming. He wore a stained tank top that might have been white once but had faded to a dingy gray, and jeans with holes in the knees that weren't fashionable distressing but genuine wear.
The baseball bat in his hands was wooden, the kind used in amateur leagues, with tape wrapped around the handle for better grip. Dark stains marked the barrel—could have been dirt, could have been something else.
He shifted his weight, looked Elijah up and down with exaggerated slowness, then turned slightly toward his companions with a grin that showed several missing teeth.
"Seeeriously," he drawled, the word stretched out in that distinctive accent that spoke of somewhere south and west, where vowels got elongated and consonants sometimes disappeared entirely. "When we all were called here, I thought we was facin' some kinda pro, y'know? Some real dangerous sumbitch who needed five'a us to take 'im down proper-like."
He gestured at Elijah with the bat, waving it dismissively. "But turns out it's some blind or deaf idiot jus' standin' there with his mouth hangin' open. What'm I lookin' at here? This'n even worth our time?"
The way he spoke transformed simple words into something musical and lazy—"seriously" became "seeeriously," "what am I" became "what'm," "isn't" became "ain't" without him even using that particular word. Each syllable got its own treatment, some emphasized, others swallowed, creating a rhythm that was distinctly regional.
His companions responded with laughter—some genuine, some forced, but all of them sharing that moment of tension-release that came from mockery of the target.
A shorter man—genuinely short, maybe five feet tall but built like a fire hydrant, all compact muscle and no neck—held a length of chain in both hands. The chain was thick, industrial-grade, with large hooks welded to each end, the kind used in towing or construction. He swung it slightly as he laughed, the metal links clinking together musically.
"Hey, Rusty," the short man said, his voice higher-pitched than expected from his build, "maybe ya should check if the guy's actually awake. Looks to me like this buffoon's sleepwalkin' or somethin'. Maybe had too much to drink, wandered to his own door and just... stopped."
He demonstrated by freezing mid-motion, arms out, mouth slack, mimicking a zombie or someone in a trance. More laughter from the group.
Rusty—apparently that was the rough-haired man's name—grinned wider and stepped forward, transferring the bat to his left hand while extending his right toward Elijah's face. "Yeah, let's jus' see if anybody's home in there—"
His hand was maybe six inches from Elijah's cheek when everything changed.
Elijah's body moved.
Not with the hesitation of someone waking from sleep, not with the sluggishness of someone drunk or drugged, but with the precise, practiced efficiency of trained muscle memory executing a defensive maneuver.
His right hand came up in a sharp arc, the edge of his palm catching Rusty's extended wrist and redirecting it outward, away from his face. The movement was textbook—a basic defensive technique taught in law enforcement training for dealing with someone attempting to grab or strike at head level. The force wasn't excessive, just enough to clear the threat and create an opening.
His left hand had already formed a proper fist—thumb outside the fingers, not tucked inside where it could break, wrist straight and locked to transfer force efficiently. That fist traveled in a tight, controlled arc, rotating slightly at the last moment to ensure the first two knuckles made primary contact.
It connected with Rusty's jaw just below and in front of his ear, the sweet spot where bone met nerve clusters, where impact could overload the nervous system and shut down motor control.
The sound was distinctive—not the theatrical *CRACK* of movies, but a solid *thud* with a slight wet quality, flesh and bone compressing, kinetic energy transferring from fist to face with brutal efficiency.
Rusty's head snapped to the side, his whole body following the momentum. His feet left the ground—just barely, just for a moment—and then he was moving backward through the air, arms windmilling uselessly, his grip on the baseball bat loosening.
He traveled a good six feet before gravity reasserted itself and brought him down. He hit the hallway floor hard, his shoulder taking the initial impact, then his head bouncing once against the tile with another *thud* that made everyone wince.
He didn't get up. Didn't move except for the automatic rise and fall of his chest. Unconscious before he finished falling, brain temporarily shut down by the perfect placement of that punch.
The baseball bat he'd been holding arced through the air, spinning end over end, following a trajectory that would bring it down somewhere between Rusty's fallen form and where his companions still stood frozen in shock.
Elijah's body tracked the bat's flight with that unseeing gaze that somehow registered everything. His hand shot out, timing perfect, and caught the bat mid-fall. His fingers wrapped around the taped handle, and in one fluid motion, he brought the bat across his body into a ready position—left hand at the base, right hand choking up near the barrel, body turned sideways to present a smaller target, weight on the balls of his feet.
It was a batting stance, yes, but modified—the kind taught to police officers for baton work, where the weapon became an extension of the body, where every position allowed for immediate attack or defense.
The short man with the chain—the one who'd made the sleepwalking joke—finally processed what had just happened. His face went through a rapid series of expressions: confusion, shock, and finally alarm as Elijah's body pivoted toward him.
"Oh shi—"
Elijah moved like water flowing downhill, the path of least resistance chosen automatically by heightened instinct. His body closed the distance in three quick steps, the bat already in motion by the second step.
The short man tried to bring his chain up, to use it as a shield or to strike, but he was too slow, his reaction time lagging behind the threat.
The bat came around in a horizontal swing, the trajectory aimed not at the head—that would have been lethal—but at the torso, specifically the solar plexus, that cluster of nerves just below the sternum where impact could knock the wind out of someone and drop them without causing permanent damage.
*CRACK*
The sound was sharper this time, the bat meeting solid mass, the impact reverberating up the wood into Elijah's hands. The short man's body folded around the point of impact, his mouth opening in a silent scream as every molecule of air was forcibly expelled from his lungs. His face went red immediately, then started turning purple as his diaphragm spasmed, refusing to allow air back in.
He dropped to his knees, the chain falling from nerveless fingers to pool around him like a metal snake. His hands clutched at his chest, his mouth working like a fish out of water, panic clear in his eyes as his body forgot how to breathe.
But Elijah's body was already moving to the next threat.
A third thug—this one tall and gangly, all awkward limbs and joints that seemed to bend at odd angles—held a knife in one hand. Not a kitchen knife, but something purpose-built for violence: a fixed blade with a five-inch cutting edge, serrated on one side, the handle wrapped in paracord for grip.
He'd been standing slightly behind and to the right of the short man, and now he found himself directly in Elijah's path. He raised the knife in what he probably thought was a threatening gesture, the blade pointed forward, his other hand held out in front of him.
Elijah's body didn't hesitate, didn't slow. The bat came around again, but this time in a rising arc, an uppercut motion rather than a horizontal swing.
The barrel of the bat caught the gangly thug in the midsection, slightly to the left of center, right where the ribs protected—or failed to protect—the liver.
The liver shot. One of the most devastating legal strikes in combat sports because it didn't cause visible damage but could drop even the toughest opponent instantly. The organ was large, full of blood vessels, and when struck with sufficient force, it sent pain signals that overrode everything else, that made the body simply shut down and refuse to continue fighting.
The gangly thug's eyes went wide, then wider. His mouth opened, and a gout of blood spilled out—not arterial spray, just the contents of his stomach, red from internal bleeding or perhaps from something he'd eaten or drunk earlier. It splattered across his shirt, across the hallway floor, across Elijah's shoulder and arm.
His knife clattered to the floor as his hands moved to his injured side. He made a sound—something between a groan and a whimper—and then his legs gave out. He collapsed sideways, curling into a fetal position, both hands pressed against his ribs, his breathing shallow and rapid.
Three down in less than ten seconds.
The remaining two thugs—one with a katana, one with a machete—finally overcame their shock and moved into action simultaneously.
The katana wielder was lean and wiry, with the look of someone who thought he knew how to use the weapon. He held it in a proper two-handed grip, the blade angled upward in something approximating a guard position from actual kenjutsu. His face showed concentration rather than fear, suggesting either genuine training or dangerous overconfidence.
The machete holder was broader, more heavily muscled, with the machete held in one hand like an oversized knife. No formal training there, just brute force and the willingness to hack at someone until they stopped moving.
They approached from different angles—katana on the left, machete on the right—attempting to flank, to divide attention, to create a situation where Elijah couldn't defend against both simultaneously.
But Elijah's body wasn't operating on sight. His empty eyes stared forward, processing nothing, but his other senses painted a complete picture of the tactical situation.
He could hear them—not just their footsteps, but the subtle differences between them. The katana wielder moved more lightly, his steps quick and precise, weight on the balls of his feet. The machete holder was heavier, each footfall a solid thump, weight more on his heels.
He could smell them—the katana wielder wore cologne, something cheap and strong that created a cone of scent trailing behind his movement. The machete holder smelled of sweat and tobacco, his breathing slightly labored from exertion or poor cardiovascular health.
And most importantly, he could feel the air currents they created. As they moved, they displaced atmosphere, pushing air ahead of them, creating small pressure changes, generating tiny turbulences that his skin registered with crystal clarity.
When the katana wielder struck—a downward diagonal slash aimed at Elijah's shoulder and neck—Elijah's body knew it was coming before the blade began its descent.
The change in air pressure as the sword was raised, the slight grunt of exertion, the shuffle-step that preceded the strike—all of it registered and was processed in the span of a millisecond.
Elijah's body moved with economy of motion, the baseball bat coming up vertically to intercept the katana's path. Wood met steel with a sharp *CLANG*, the impact sending vibrations through both weapons.
But Elijah didn't stop there. As the katana was deflected upward, his body rotated, using the momentum of the block to transition into a strike. The bat came around in a backhand swing, aimed low, targeting the outside of the katana wielder's lead knee.
*CRACK*
The kneecap wasn't designed to take lateral impact. The joint bent sideways in a way it absolutely should not, ligaments tearing, cartilage compressing. The katana wielder's face went white, and he dropped immediately, the sword falling from his hands as his brain prioritized the screaming pain signals from his destroyed knee over anything else.
The machete holder saw his companion fall and abandoned any pretense of technique. He roared—a wordless sound of rage and fear—and charged forward in a straight line, the machete raised high above his head for a brutal overhead chop.
Elijah's body waited, perfectly still, until the last possible moment.
Then he stepped forward and to the left, closing distance rather than creating it, moving inside the arc of the machete's descent. It was counterintuitive—every survival instinct screamed to move away from the blade, not toward it—but it was the right move, getting inside the weapon's effective range where it became useless.
As he moved inside, the bat came up again, this time in a short, sharp jab straight forward. The end of the bat drove into the machete holder's solar plexus—the same target he'd hit on the short man, equally effective on larger frames.
*THUD*
Air exploded from the machete holder's lungs. His charge stopped dead, momentum transferred into compressing his torso rather than carrying him forward. The machete completed its downward arc but with no force behind it, the blade hitting the floor with a metallic *clang* and bouncing away.
Before the machete holder could recover, Elijah's body followed up. The bat rotated in his hands, and he brought it down on the back of the man's head—not full force, which could have fractured the skull, but controlled, precise, just enough force to induce immediate unconsciousness.
The machete holder dropped like a puppet with cut strings, face-first onto the hallway floor, out cold before he finished falling.
Five opponents down in perhaps twenty seconds total. An efficiency that spoke of training so deeply ingrained it had become pure reflex, requiring no conscious thought to execute.
But Elijah's body wasn't finished.
The apartment building had four floors, connected by a central stairwell. Elijah's apartment was on the third floor, and the sound of the brief fight had apparently traveled because more footsteps were now audible coming up the stairs—heavy boots, multiple sets, moving with purpose.
Elijah's body turned toward the stairwell and began walking, the baseball bat still held in that ready position, left hand at the base, right hand choking up for control and quick strikes.
As he reached the landing where the stairs switched back for the next flight down, three more thugs came into view from below. These were different from the first group—better equipped, more professional in appearance. They wore actual tactical gear: black cargo pants, boots, and form-fitting long-sleeve shirts. They moved in formation, maintaining spacing and covering each other.
The lead man had a collapsible baton extended, the kind police carried. The second had brass knuckles on both hands. The third carried a short crowbar, the kind used for prying, the metal dull and scratched from use.
They saw Elijah and immediately shifted into combat stances, clearly more experienced than the group upstairs.
Elijah's body descended the stairs, his footfalls steady, unhurried. Each step down was placed with precision, weight transferred smoothly, balance maintained even on the angled surface.
The lead thug with the baton struck first, his weapon coming around in a horizontal swing aimed at Elijah's ribs. It was a competent attack, proper technique, designed to break bones and disable.
Elijah's body pivoted, letting the baton whistle past his torso, missing by inches. As it passed, his left hand released the baseball bat momentarily and shot out, grabbing the thug's extended wrist. His body continued its pivot, using the thug's own momentum against him, redirecting that energy and adding to it.
The thug found himself suddenly overbalanced, his trajectory altered, his feet stumbling to catch up with where his upper body was being pulled. He careened past Elijah and slammed shoulder-first into the concrete wall of the stairwell with a painful *THUD*.
Elijah's left hand snapped back to the baseball bat, grip reestablished without fumbling, and he continued his descent.
The second thug—brass knuckles—tried a different approach, coming up the stairs to meet Elijah rather than waiting for him to descend. He threw a combination: left jab, right cross, left hook. The brass knuckles caught the dim stairwell lighting, gleaming dully.
But Elijah's body could hear each punch coming—the rush of displaced air, the slight grunt of exertion with each strike, the scrape of the thug's boots as he shifted weight.
Block with the bat, angled to deflect rather than absorb full force. Block again, the bat moving in tight, controlled arcs. Block the hook, then counter immediately.
The bat came around low, sweeping horizontally, catching the brass-knuckles thug across both shins. The impact was precise, hitting the bony front of the tibia where there was minimal muscle or fat to cushion the blow.
The thug's legs buckled, his face contorting in pain, and he sat down hard on the stairs. Before he could recover, the bat came around again, this time striking his shoulder—specifically targeting the deltoid muscle and the bundle of nerves underneath. His right arm went instantly numb, the brass knuckles falling from his limp fingers to bounce down several steps with sharp metallic *clinks*.
The third thug—crowbar—had been hanging back, but now he surged forward, trying to use the confined space of the stairwell to his advantage. He thrust the crowbar forward like a spear, aiming for Elijah's center mass.
Elijah's body sidestepped, minimal movement, just enough to let the crowbar pass. His right hand released the baseball bat, shot forward, and grabbed the crowbar's shaft. The motion was so fast, so unexpected, that the crowbar was yanked from the thug's grip before he could react.
Now Elijah held two weapons—baseball bat in left hand, crowbar in right.
The crowbar came around in a vicious arc, the hooked end catching the third thug on the side of the head. Not the sharp hook itself—which could have split his skull—but the shaft just behind it, delivering a stunning blow that rattled his brain against the inside of his skull.
His eyes rolled back, his knees buckled, and he slumped against the stairwell railing, semiconscious, blood trickling from a cut on his temple where the metal had broken skin.
Elijah's body dropped the crowbar—letting it clatter down the stairs—and continued its descent, the baseball bat once again held in both hands.
Inside his prison, teenage Elijah could feel echoes of each impact, could sense the resistance when the bat connected with flesh and bone, could taste the adrenaline flooding his real body's system even though his conscious mind was trapped elsewhere.
I don't recall training in some fight technique, he thought, his internal voice struggling to stay coherent through the assault of the torture-sound that continued its relentless attack on his nervous system. This has to be something due to the chip placed in my head. Perhaps it has enhanced my basic sensory abilities—my body can hear, smell, and feel things with clarity I've never experienced consciously.
He watched his teenage arms continue their futile struggle against the restraints, the leather straps creaking but not giving, his muscles burning with fatigue from the endless repetitive motion.
But the moves themselves... the techniques, the combinations, the way my body flows from defense to offense... maybe I did train all of this. Maybe somewhere in my past, I learned these skills, practiced them until they became automatic. But I forgot. The memories are gone, erased or suppressed or just lost in the complexity of my own mind.
The speakers pulsed, the waterfall-glass hybrid sound reaching a new crescendo, and he had to wait for it to subside enough for coherent thought to continue.
Now that my body is in control, operating on instinct and enhanced perception, it's like doing moves it remembers based on muscle memory alone.
Skills I did acquire but can no longer consciously access. My body knows, even if I don't.
The realization was both comforting and terrifying—comforting because it meant he wasn't completely helpless, terrifying because it meant huge chunks of his life were missing from his conscious recollection, stolen or hidden or destroyed by whatever had been done to him.
By the time Elijah's body reached the ground floor, eight more thugs lay scattered across two flights of stairs—some unconscious, some groaning in pain, some trying to crawl away, all thoroughly defeated.
The baseball bat was gone now, dropped after its wooden barrel had cracked from repeated impacts. But Elijah's body had adapted, had collected weapons from the fallen: a knife with a six-inch blade, a tactical baton, someone's belt that had been hastily removed and used as an improvised whip before being discarded.
The ground floor hallway was empty, though doors cracked open as residents peeked out to see what the commotion was, then quickly closed again when they saw the scene—one man standing among a dozen fallen bodies, breathing steady, face expressionless, eyes empty.
Elijah's body stood at the base of the stairs, head tilted slightly as if listening, processing, calculating. Then it turned and began walking toward the building's front entrance, stepping over and around the fallen thugs, boots occasionally scuffing against dropped weapons or pools of blood.
Behind him, the trail of defeated opponents lay scattered like discarded toys, testimony to the efficiency of training combined with enhanced perception and the ruthless logic of pure instinct unencumbered by conscious thought, doubt, or hesitation.
The building's front door stood ahead, leading to the street beyond, to whatever waited out there in the night, to the next challenge that this impossible day would throw at him.
And Elijah's body walked toward it with steady, unhurried steps, a weapon in each hand, ready for whatever came next.