Chapter 9
Moments later in the parking lot
Bang. Bang.
Matthew fires at Thomas’s legs, but it’s useless. Thomas moves out of the way, bullets chewing into concrete. Thomas dashes toward him, eyes razor-focused.
Bang. Bang. Click.
“Shit… I’m out of b….”
BOOM.
Matthew is sent airborne. Thomas’s uppercut big enough to fill a man’s whole vision—connects with Matthew’s ribcage, costing him half his ribs. The crack of bone sounds like twigs snapping, loud enough for everyone watching.
Matthew coughs blood, splattering Thomas’s face. Unfazed, Thomas stares down as Matthew trembles and rolls backward.
Silence. The thunder of gunfire gone. Matthew’s breathing is shallow—like the dying hum of a machine shutting down.
The six fighters step forward, ready to dance with death.
Thomas’s eyes glare, letting them know he’s ready to shift from prey to predator. But before he turns toward them, he notices movement at the corner of his eye—
Bang.
Matthew stands. Legs shaking. Head throbbing from accumulated trauma. Lungs barely functioning, every breath a punishment. The broken ribs make each inhale feel like suffocation.
By all measures this kid should be unconscious—if not dead. But he’s upright. Gun pointed. Thomas still untouched by a single bullet.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going? Fight’s not done yet, old man.”
Matthew looked like a broken scarecrow.
Thomas exhales. His focus stays locked on Matthew’s movements. He’s tired of beating this child, but pity doesn’t exist in his eyes.
“ Surviving that hit was impressive. But you won’t survive the next. And from what I’ve seen, you own a gun, sure—but you don’t know how to use it. I’m shocked this is Sebastian’s second-in-command.”
Matthew relaxes his already shaking arm, lowering it as if ready to surrender. But as he lowers the gun, his eyes sharpen. His breathing slows even further. His shoulders loosen. His whole body sinks into a dangerous calm—relaxing like water accepting the current.
Thomas mirrors his guard relaxing—
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Bang.
A shot aimed for Thomas’s right shoulder.
He notices late, but it’s still dodgeable—at least for a man with his experience.
He moves.
Blood splatters.
Not Matthew’s.
Thomas’s.
The spectators freeze. Even Thomas looks surprised—because the pain is in the wrong spot.
Not the left shoulder—the right.
“What just happened? Did the old man finally make a mistake?”
" No mistakes made here. That bullet shoulda gone left and missed—but mid-air, fam, it just curved. Wicked, brother. What kinda witchcraft is this?" "Jamaican man never seen such madness.”
Blood spreads across Thomas’s white shirt, repainting it in red. Everyone is confused—except three people:
Thomas, injured. Matthew, the shooter. And one man among the six fighters, holding a blade.
He answers the madness:
“Hahaha witchcraft nah....Its craft long dead, died with its people. If I recall, that was a Helix Shot. Dangerous.”
Thomas’s shock fades. No sign of pain. caution takes over. Matthew's intensity rises with the crude state of flow.
Two more shots fire—
Bang. Bang.
This time, these shots are unavoidable.
Both bullets curve mid-air. One veers toward the right side of his head. The other twists toward his chest.
He can’t dodge both.
He chooses.
He dashes backward. The head-shot grazes his ear. The chest-shot tears a shallow line vertically.
Thomas chose the wound he could survive.
So Sebastian taught him. I should end this before the audience joins in. I don’t like the look of that swordsman.
Thomas charges forward, ready to take sacrificial fire just to end the fight quicker.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Two shots aimed at his legs. The one curved aimed for an arm. Each shot was evaded
Thomas realizes Matthew can’t do it consistently. He gambles and runs through the storm.
Matthew fires wildly. Only one bullet curves out of every three shots. Thomas predicts the straight shots with ease and risks everything to avoid the curve patterns.
He breaks through the storm with no scratch.
He reaches Matthew.
A punch from the sky crashes down on Matthew’s face. Matthew kisses the pavement harder than he’s ever kissed a woman.
Teeth gone. Face destroyed. Probably won’t eat right ever again.
Before losing consciousness, Matthew shouts his last order:
“Attack! Kill this man—even if it costs your lives!”
He passes out.
The fighters look toward Thomas.
Thomas faces them, ripping off what remains of his shirt—wounds exposed. Left shoulder leaking like a busted pipe. Chest wound shallow but still bleeding.
His face calm.
His stare dares them to move. Instinct tells every man: first one forward dies.
A pool of blood forms beneath Thomas’s feet. If this drags on, he might die.
But then the blood stops dripping. Completely.
Everyone freezes as the wounds begin shrinking.
Thomas smiles.
“Brother… what’s going on? That’s not normal. Swordsman. I ain’t paid enough to fight demons.”
“Demon? Might be right. How else do you describes that? This guy can stop wounds by will alone. I'm sure he's trained every muscle to failure most die just training.”
All eyes shift to the wounds. Muscles twist and contract by themselves—only around the injury. The rest of the body remains relaxed.
It’s unnatural. Efficient. Terrifying.
Thomas steps forward. They realize he must be killed quickly.
They charge him as one.
The swordsman reaches first, swinging for Thomas’s head. But Thomas moves faster than before—fast enough to blur—and leaps from the parking lot straight to the motel roof.
“Seems all of you are eager for a piece. Tonight’s do or die for all of us I suppose. I should get comfortable then.”
He looks down at them from the roof, eyes locked, moonlight crowning him like a predator anointed.
He strips down to only his black underwear—revealing he wasn’t unarmed earlier. The cobra is visible. But more importantly, he stands ready to jump back down.
How do you feel about pacing so far?
