"OF COURSE I AM!"
Tòumíng shouted it out loud, his voice echoing off the alley walls, adrenaline and reckless confidence flooding his system in equal measure.
Donny, hearing the response, immediately had second thoughts. The kid was talking to someone. An earpiece maybe? Backup? Was this a setup? He raised a hand, about to call off the engagement.
Too late.
The big guy was already charging. Three hundred pounds of muscle and poor impulse control barreling down the alley like a freight train, fist cocked back for a devastating haymaker.
"DODGE!" Cupid screamed. "MOVE! GET OUT OF THE WAY!"
Tòumíng stood perfectly still.
This was a stress test. A real-world experiment to see exactly how far Schrödinger's Heart would take him. Theory was one thing. Getting punched in the face by a man who probably benched actual benches for fun was another.
The haymaker connected.
"FUCKKKKKKKK!"
The pain was immediate, explosive, absolute. His cheekbone cracked audibly cracked, the sound reverberating through his skull. His head snapped to the side from the impact, his vision going white, then red, then a sickening swirl of colors that meant serious head trauma.
But he didn't fall.
Didn't even stumble.
His body remained upright, functional, mobile despite the shattered bone and the concussive force that should have knocked him unconscious. The pain was excruciating, screaming through every nerve in his face, but that's all it did. Hurt. It didn't disable. Didn't stop him.
Tòumíng smiled through broken teeth, blood filling his mouth.
"My turn."
He threw his own haymaker, untrained and wild but powered by pure rage and the knowledge that he could tank whatever came next. His fist connected with Bob's jaw, the impact sending shockwaves up his arm.
Bob grunted, stumbled back half a step, then grinned. "That all you got, kid?"
"Not even close."
They traded blows. Haymaker for haymaker, a brutal exchange with zero technique and maximum violence. Bob's fists were like sledgehammers, each impact breaking something new—ribs, orbital bone, jaw realigning at angles that definitely weren't natural.
But Tòumíng kept moving. Kept fighting. Kept throwing punches that landed with wet, meaty sounds against Bob's face and body.
"Kid, you should be unconscious!" Cupid's voice was panicked, disbelieving. "Multiple head injuries! Broken bones! You're—"
"Winning," Tòumíng gasped out between punches.
"You're NOT winning! You're getting destroyed! Just avoid the temple, okay? The temple is weak, even with Schrödinger's Heart if you get hit there hard enough you'll go unconscious and—"
Tòumíng nodded, blood spraying from his mouth, and deliberately aimed for Big guys cheeks instead. Each punch hurt. Each impact sent pain radiating through his already-broken hands. But Big guy was slowing down. Breathing harder. His punches losing power while Tòumíng's stayed consistent.
Because Tòumíng couldn't get tired from damage. Couldn't weaken from blood loss. His body existed in quantum uncertainty simultaneously destroyed and functional, dying and alive.
Bob threw another haymaker. Tòumíng took it to the cheek, felt something else crack, and threw one back that caught Bob square in the face.
Then Tòumíng's fist connected with the big guys's temple.
The big man's eyes rolled back. His knees buckled. Three hundred pounds of muscle collapsed like a puppet with cut strings, hitting the alley floor with a thud that shook loose dust from the walls.
"BOB!" Donny screamed, rushing forward, then stopping halfway, unsure if he should check on his fallen friend or defend himself.
Yellow Teeth had no such hesitation. His face twisted with rage, hand diving into his jacket and emerging with a gun a cheap pistol, probably stolen, definitely not maintained properly.
He flipped the switch.
And opened fire.
BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.
Seven shots in rapid succession, all aimed center mass at Tòumíng's stomach and chest. The muzzle flash lit up the alley in strobing bursts, the sound deafening in the confined space, casings bouncing off brick walls.
Tòumíng jerked with each impact, his body responding to the kinetic force even as it refused to fall. Blood bloomed across his white designer hoodie, seven dark stains spreading rapidly. The pain was beyond description—worse than anything he'd felt in the mines, worse than Hǔtān's beating, a burning agony that consumed his entire torso.
But he didn't fall.
Yellow Teeth's gun clicked empty. He stared, mouth hanging open, cigarette falling from his lips.
Donny grabbed Yellow Teeth's shoulder, pulling him back. "He's dead. He has to be dead. Seven shots center mass, nobody survives that."
They watched Tòumíng's body, waiting for it to collapse, waiting for the inevitable fall that had to come.
Tòumíng stood up straighter.
Started laughing.
"HOLY SHIT!" The laugh was manic, unhinged, powered by adrenaline and the impossible reality of still being conscious. "HOLY SHIT, I'M ALIVE! IT'S ALIVEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
He spread his arms wide, blood pouring from seven bullet wounds, his face a broken mess, and laughed at the sky.
"This fucker's crazy!" Donny yelled, backing away. "He's insane! We need to run!"
Yellow Teeth wasn't listening. His hands shook as he processed what he was seeing. "It's crackhead strength! The fucker is on something! PCP maybe! Angel dust! I've heard about this shit!"
He grabbed Donny's gun from his waistband Donny had barely registered the theft before Yellow Teeth was aiming at Tòumíng's chest again.
"DIE ALREADY!"
BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.
Seven more shots. Donny's full clip, emptied into Tòumíng's torso at close range. Blood sprayed. Fabric tore. Bullets punched through ribs and organs and exited out his back, embedding in the brick wall behind him.
Fourteen bullets total. Fourteen holes in his body. Blood pooling at his feet, running down his legs, soaking through his designer cargo pants.
It hurt.
God, it hurt like a motherfucker.
Like being burned alive from the inside. Like every nerve ending was screaming simultaneously. Like his body was trying to shut down, to give up, to embrace death as the merciful release from this agony.
BUT HE COULD STILL FUCKING MOVE.