NICK
The first punch was fast... the kind of fast that only comes from someone who has spent years doing exactly this, someone who didn't waste an ounce of motion on performance.
His knuckles caught the side of my jaw, and the sharp, wet sound of the impact seemed to echo in the open air of the roof.
The concrete floor came up to meet me before I could even register that my legs had given out.
My shoulder hit the gravel first, followed by the flat of my back, the cold stone soaking through the fabric of my white coat instantly.
Before my brain could even tell my muscles to try and stand, a heavy weight dropped directly onto my chest. Cyan was on top of me, pinning my ribs down with his knees, his right fist already pulled back.
The second punch caught my lower lip. The sharp, copper taste of blood was immediate, filling my mouth before I could swallow.
