The subway station's isolated corner was a grim, shadowed arena, the street light overhead casting harsh light across the glinting train tracks, where Michael lay sprawled, out cold from my kick.
The air was thick with the stench of rust, cigarette smoke, and raw tension, the distant hum of a train barely audible. I stood calm, my long hair falling over my eyes, my expression unreadable as I faced the remaining mafia goons
—Henry and his crew, their bats and metal rods gripped tight, their faces shifting from cocky to uneasy.
Raya and Kalina huddled against a stone pillar, their earlier sly smiles replaced by wide-eyed surprise, their gazes locked on me like I'd just done the impossible.
John, the guy in the black coat guy, clutched his bat tighter, his jaw twitching as he stared at Michael's crumpled form. "What the fuck?" he muttered, his voice shaky, his eyes darting to me. "He took out Michael in just one kick!"
