Fighting Chance 9

His whole side felt like it got hit by a bus. Or maybe a whole damn Metro train. It was just a taxi, though.

Just.

Zain limped fast down the backstreets behind Canal like he could outwalk the stabbing under his ribs, hoodie stuck to his side with blood and sweat. Fabric clung where it tore—right sleeve shredded, chest smeared in dark red patches that looked way too fresh to ignore.

Street rules said don’t flinch, don’t stop moving, and don’t look like a target.

He looked like a target.

The cab hadn’t even been trying to hit him four blocks back, but that didn’t really matter when he had run right in front of it anyway. The driver had screamed loud, laid on the horn like that was gonna fix anything, but Zain wasn’t looking, wasn’t thinking. He had just bolted out of the buffet and caught a full-body roll across the hood before he tumbled off the other side and landed on the asphalt like roadkill. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t down for long, just long enough to regret everything about today.

Being honest, he’d already dipped before the driver got half a sentence out—some mess about cops and insurance—yeah, good luck with that, bro.

His legs kept moving because stopping was a bad idea. Adrenaline had got him two blocks away fast, maybe two-and-a-half. Adrenaline didn’t really last all that long before the pain really hit for real. Heh, got me two blocks, though. Now, though, he was dragging one foot behind him and hoping more than anything that he was just being a pussy and it wasn’t broken or anything.

Every breath hit sharp. Every step, worse. Pain had a rhythm now. It was counting him out.

He kept checking behind him—quick glances over the shoulder, eyes darting across rooftops, windows, every alley mouth that looked too still. Nothing obvious. Nothing loud. Which meant they were close.

That buffet run? Dumb.

He’d known it was dumb, too. He knew damn well Chinatown was probably hot after he robbed the Triad place and fought those two guys. But he’d gotten cocky after hiding out for two weeks and figured the heat had died down. On top of that, his stomach had been louder than common sense and he told himself it was safe. No one had gotten a picture of his face, no video either, and honestly, there were too many black kids in New York to really pick one out anyway.

So he had decided to go today. Wednesday, a quiet day, not one of his usuals, but it’d been a while since he’d been in here, so what did it matter? Then he had walked in and the old lady at the counter kept staring like he owed her money. He figured it was cause he hadn’t showered today, that was usually it.

He had seen her make a call after he sat down and paid. He stayed anyway, because it’d be paranoid to think everything was about him, right?

Wrong.

What he knew for sure: he got lazy. He got cocky. The chain had him feeling untouchable, and now he was touching a whole different kind of consequence.

“’Course they were still looking for me, course they were, man,” he muttered as he ran as fast he could, limping leg fighting him each step of the way, just trying to make the pressure feel less tight. “I knew it, man. I stole man’s shoes and beat up his buddies, I knew it.”

He took a left, cut down a cramped alley behind two restaurants. Steam hit him in the face from a busted vent, hot and greasy and laced with something sharp—fish sauce maybe. Garlic. Burnt oil. Couldn’t tell. Didn’t matter. Just meant someone was cooking and he was too close to the back door.

Boxes were stacked everywhere, plastic crates and cardboard slick with whatever had been leaking out the trash bins all week. Sure, it slowed him down, but going back was worse. He didn’t trust what was waiting behind him anymore.

Zain gritted his teeth, pressed harder against the spot under his ribs. Pain screamed. He didn’t.

“Just gotta hit the train,” he hissed, stumbling over a crate and catching himself on the brick wall as his other hand cradled his ribs. “Simple plan, get as far away from Chinatown as you can. Take the metro. Maybe hide in Harlem, maybe find Luke Cage or something.” He had no idea if Luke Cage even existed — the name hadn’t shown up on any searches, and all Power Man gave him was ads for electricians — but it wasn’t the worst idea he’d ever had.

He took another step.

Didn’t stop.

The alley was gross and narrow, lit up by a sad little flickering lightbulb that barely pushed the shadows back as the sun began to set. Zain was halfway down said dirty alley when some place’s door exploded open and cracked him dead in the face.

FUCK!

His whole head snapped back like somebody hit pause and fast-forward at the same time. His feet slipped on something slimy and a crate caught his foot before he could manage to balance or even stop. Before he knew it, his body hit the pavement and a hard grunt spilled out of his gritted teeth. The ground was cold, and if that wasn’t enough, it was also wet too, and not just with water. He didn’t need to look to tell; just by smell and feel alone, he knew it was that dirty garbage water that turned into slime for some sick reason. Blood sprayed down his lip by the time the second groan left his mouth. He didn’t even get to see what hit him till the trash bag dropped right next to him.

Zain blinked up, eyes unfocused and vision bleary. The Chinese guy in the doorway froze like a raccoon caught in porch light, another trash bag still gripped tight in hand. The dude blinked, Zain blinked, then—

“Damn,” Zain muttered, hand already at his face, fingers sticky in a way he really didn’t wanna think about. “You for real right now?”

Yelling in Cantonese from somewhere up and down the alley made the guy freak and vanish like he’d never been there, door slamming behind him like Zain owed him money. The trash bag he was holding dropped down the steps of the back door to land near the first and both of them rolled over, leaking some more foul juice near Zain’s knee.

He sat up too fast and regretted doing that as soon as his body made the move. Pain jackhammered through his ribs like it was trying to escape out his back and his nose gushed, blood sliding down his throat, making him gag, cough, and — a full two seconds later — spit red out on concrete.

Footsteps came rushing down the alley. Big ones, heavy, grown men, *clearly^.

Zain scrambled backward on elbows, hand slipping, scratched up bare knees smearing into wet grime and making him hate today even more than he did already. The chain clinked, still wrapped around his wrist like a joke. His grip sucked, his fingers were trembling like hamsters about to have a heart attack and the only thing that felt like it was working was his heart, the thing pumping away fast and hard.

“Nowhere to run now, little thief.”

That accent hit like ice water.

One step, then two, then seven. Suits walked into the weak light like they owned it. All slick shoes and murder eyes. The front guy had a scar through his eyebrow and a mouth that didn’t smile right. Knives, batons, brass knuckles—the kind of stuff you don’t bring unless you mean it. Two more behind Zain. Silent. Sharp.

Surrounded.

Zain stood anyway and edged backwards till his spine hit brick. Good. Kept them from flanking, at least. He wasn’t sure how he knew that but he did.

Every breath was a slap from the inside. His hoodie was soaked through with sweat and blood and god knows what from the alley floor. The chain unwrapped in his hand, links dragging like dead weight.

“Seven on one?” he rasped, voice thick with blood. “Man, y’all really need backup that bad?”

Front guy tilted his head. “The boy makes jokes even now.”

Zain shifted his weight. Left foot screaming. “Nah, I’m just tryna keep myself entertained before I beat y’all with a chain like this is Def Jam Vendetta.”

Scarface didn’t blink. “Brave.”

That one word threw him. Harder than the door had, even. Brave? Yeah, fuck no. Dumb, sure. Bleeding, cornered, and maybe three hits away from throwing up a mouthful of blood and okay Chinese food, definitely.

“Yeah, okay.” Zain gulped down another mouthful of blood, wondering how much more of that he was about to be doing. Let’s find out. “Brave. Let’s go with that.”

Zain yanked the chain wide and threw his weight behind it—aiming straight for Scarface with everything he had left. It cracked across the dude’s jaw with a snap loud enough to echo, blood spraying from his cheek like a popped ketchup packet. He barely flinched. Just blinked once. Then the baton slammed into Zain’s ribs, right where he was already broken.

Pain blacked him out for half a second. He folded and didn’t even mean to. Just dropped like someone unplugged him. The scream tore out of his throat raw before he could swallow it.

Didn’t matter.

They were on him. Left side—knife across the arm, sharp and hot. Right side—something cracked against his wrist and pop, the chain was gone, slipping outta his hand and skittering under a dumpster like it didn’t know him.

“F—”

No time to say it. One dude lunged. Zain’s fist shot up and caught him right in the neck. Straight to the trachea. The guy gagged and reeled back, but whatever. There were four more, and they weren’t waiting.

He didn’t even see the knife coming.

Just—shunk. Between the ribs. Heat flared through his whole side and went cold just as fast. He staggered, hand flying to the wound, already slick with blood.

Vision narrowed. His knees buckled.

Hands grabbed him, one on each side. He kicked. Weak. His kicks didn’t matter. They flung him like trash into the side of a dumpster. His shoulder caught first, then his hip. Metal crunched and gave, and the ground hit harder.

Air left his lungs. All of it.

He laid there, coughing wet and raw, blood pouring down his throat, and  face smushed into whatever grime soaked that alley floor. The chain was close—he could see it. Half under the dumpster. So close. Not close enough.

His hands twitched. Didn’t move.

The leader stepped forward slow. Blade in hand, a curved sharp thing. Zain blinked blood out his eyes, barely tracking the guy’s face. It was calm. Like this was just cleanup.

That was it, huh? This is how I go out? Just stomped out behind some Chinese joint by dudes who didn’t even know his name.

Then everything stopped.

Footsteps. One pair.

At the mouth of the alley, a woman walked in like she’d been here before. Plain fit. Nothing flashy. Hair tied back. No bags. No gear. No fear.

Zain couldn’t even process it at first. Just another body. But the air shifted. Not like a super thing. Like a people thing. Real ones recognize real, and the Triad dudes clocked it first.

She spoke. Mandarin, maybe. Zain didn’t get the words. Didn’t need to. The Triad did. Whole squad stiffened.

Voices kicked off, fast and sharp. The guy with the baton turned. Scarface dropped into some stance that didn’t look like a street thing. Looked trained.

Two dudes broke formation and took a few steps toward her.

The leader didn’t even blink. He just flicked his hand like she was a fly.

That was his mistake.

She moved fast and quiet, wrecking each and every one of them with just as much speed and skill as she moved. Somehow, she didn’t even look mad about it.

First dude swung—mistake. His arm bent the wrong way before the punch even landed. Sounded like somebody snapped a frozen carrot. Zain flinched, nose still leaking, but yeah—damn.

Second one tried to stab her. Real bold. Somehow he ended up stabbing himself in the shoulder. Looked confused about it, too. Third and fourth dudes? Dropped at the same time like a synced Bluetooth combo. No yelling, no showboating, just surgical disrespect. Every hit felt brutal, but careful, and that made each one even more final.

It was like she wasn’t even trying to prove anything—just cleaning up.

Zain blinked through blood, his vision jumpy. His ribs were still screaming, but now his brain had a different emergency: trying to figure out what the hell just walked into his death scene.

The boss stepped up, cocky with it—pulled another blade like round two was about to drop. But even he moved careful. Trained. Zain could tell. They traded like six hits in half a second—Zain barely caught the blur before it turned ugly. Her elbow hit his shoulder, twisted it all jacked up, and now that blade was on the ground and so was dude. Silent fall. His face said it all: disbelief, pain, maybe betrayal.

Whole thing took, what, twenty seconds? Thirty?

Zain’s back scraped the dumpster as he tried to sit up. His whole body felt like a used punching bag. The chain was over there somewhere, a few inches away from his hand. It didn’t really matter now.

He stared at her where she stood, the woman calm and not even breathing hard.

“Who… who are you?”

His voice came out ragged, blood spattering out his throat as he coughed again and again. Still, the attitude was locked in, and he couldn’t help it. Armor didn’t come off easy.

She turned, looked him up and down like he was a busted phone—fast glance, then crouched next to him. She didn’t even flinch at the blood, juust gently touched the hole in his side like she was cataloging damage.

“You the kid that’s been pissing off every gang from here to Queens?” No question mark, she’d already heard about him. Her voice was flat, no accent, a regular American accent now. Not the Mandarin from a minute ago.

Zain coughed, winced, wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve as he thought about lying.

Instead: “I don’t do names.”

She laughed, a legit one. Not fake, not mean. “Cool. Call me Colleen.”

Her hands pressed something rough to his side. Zain hissed through his teeth. His fingers twitched like they might throw hands on reflex.

Sirens, now. Closer.

His head started drifting. Everything got fuzzier around the edges, real floaty.

“Hey. Hey, kid, nah—don’t do that. You got a concussion.”

Too late.

“You gotta keep going.”

His eyes wouldn’t stay open, he couldn’t hold them.

Last thing he heard? Her voice again, firm this time.

“Stay with me, kid. This ain’t where your story ends.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

5K Words (100 DP)

ROLL: Healing! (200 DP) [Street Fighter] {Mystic}: “There are no timeouts in a street fight, enemies don’t wait around while you rest up between beating the crap out of them. There’s never anyone tending to all your wounds and bruises before you’re right back in the fray.

This perk, however, allows you to be self-sufficient to a degree. By calling out the command ‘Healing!’ with a hand outstretched towards the sky, you will become showered in a ray of light that slowly heals all your wounds and injuries as you stand in it.

This power does need you to stand still, which is an issue, and it can’t help you recover from anything too serious like missing body parts or crushed organs, but being able to recover at all when you’re real deep in a serious situation is priceless.”

Dojo Points: 0