Chapter Six

The spasming ball of struggle continued. 

Air was sucked in and out in a rapid burst during a particular flip—and his muscles blew past cold and heavy to the burn of real damage—as Min continued to divide his attention between preventing the man from getting the gun and ensuring his mark formed properly. It was difficult, so fucking difficult, and for a moment, he considered letting it end here. To give up. After all, the very ache in his bones demanded he had some respite or permanent damage could set in. But—

Was he willing to let Kush's murderer (or at least, someone complicit) go scot-free? 

It wasn't a difficult question to answer. 

Growling, he tuned out the warning signals screaming in his head and swung his legs up, hooking a foot in each of the man's armpits. Even as darkness crept into the edges of his vision, Min managed to kick out, throwing the man onto his back while relinquishing control of the gun. 

The abrupt one-eighty left the man stumped, though it wasn't long before he scrambled after the gun. However, those few precious seconds of confusion were all Min needed to add one more mark to his mental tally, bringing the total count to two. His hand blindly shot out for any part of the man's body he could reach, just as he heard said man twisting toward him, brushing against the old strand that led to the couch in Kush's apartment and tugging at it—just in time too, it seemed, as when they instantaneously found themselves back in the apartment (on the couch), the distant crack of a gunshot went off beyond the door. 

Then, not giving the man any time to adjust, he returned them to the passageway and back, again and again, and again, until the man was left a nauseous wreck on the floor of the passageway. 

Min's brand of teleportation was jarring, and rough, as if the world got tired of his shit and decided to toss him to his destination through a straw. It wasn't clean, and so everyone but him would quickly find themselves unable to contain the contents of their stomach, especially after back-to-back teleportations—and from the sounds of retching he heard, the man had not taken particularly well to the ordeal. 

A part of Min felt pity, but the greater part urged him to crawl towards the man's chest, even as he breathed slowly to allow the slight dizziness he felt to recede. Despite years of using his power, he was not completely immune to its effects, just able to tolerate it increasingly better. 

Thankfully, his luck held as not only did he make it to the man without being sick, but Min did so before he recovered, managing to avoid the worst of the strewn vomit to wrap his hands around said man's neck to hold him in place. Struggle was inevitable, the man's body flailing and kicking (albeit feebly), but clumsy yet brutal strikes rained down with his elbow quickly dissuaded the man of any notion of escape—and it wasn't long before the struggle ceased entirely, Min able to end the fight permanently by slamming the man's head to the floor multiple times. Soon, all that remained in the passageway was his ragged breathing, his lungs working overtime, and the distant squelch of a battered head falling in its own fluid as he released his hold over the man. 

Against all odds, he survived certain death. It was over. He did it. 

The feeling of relief and slight pride bubbled from the pit of his stomach, climbing until it reached his throat, to escape in a low, raspy chuckle. He was alive—bruised, if not bleeding, and aching all over—but he was still alive, and in the end, that was all that mattered.

Then, common sense reasserted itself, smashing down his mirth faster than it had come, and he realised there should have been more men than the one he just killed. Not that he wanted to fight again, especially in his current condition, but surely, their boss wasn't stupid enough to send only one man into the building. Yes, they didn't know shit, but wasn't that more of a reason for overkill. For all they knew, the reason he had Death's attention was because he was a powerful person—so where the fuck were the others?

His answer came the very next moment (as if the universe were listening) in the form of a familiar whistling melody floating in the air, accentuated unnaturally by the almost sultry staccato on the floor as it approached him. 

His neck had never whirled in a direction as fast as it did then. 

Speak of the devil…

"Is it your schtick?" The immediate fear he felt had the unfortunate side-effect of loosening his tongue, as that was all he could do now. He couldn't fight, he couldn't run—all he could do was talk. "Anyone thinks of you and you appear? Don't you have a life, you fucking—"

"Remember what I told you: no one touches you but me. So, please, ensure you never end up in such a situation again." A short pause as Death came to a stop in front of him, the cloth—a dress, most likely, of an odd make—she wore caressing his face with its fleeting touches. "I won't always be there to clean up your mess."

His breath came in ragged bursts; he wanted to scream, to hit something, anything, but he knew it wouldn't change anything. 

So, he settled for snapping at her, voice sharp. "My mess?! This is all your fault!" 

In lieu of a response, little warm drops of blood fell onto his exposed flesh as she walked past him—the haunting melody following in cadence, along with the ghost of her fingers on his neck—and he couldn't help the shiver that ran through him, even as he tried impotently to convey his anger at her words. 

Then, he sensed the change; the moment she passed, the air, once stale with the scent of rotting wood and dust, now carried an undertone of something unsettling—an intangible heaviness, as if the very air mourned in her presence. 

Admittedly dramatic, but fitting—very fitting—as it evoked a primal part of his evolution, and it was all he could do to get as far away from her as possible, the smell of death clinging to him all the while. 

Chilling. 

Sadly, the universe couldn't even give him time to sort out the whiplash of emotions he felt as, with no warning, screams rang throughout the passageway—as if the sources unanimously decided to take advantage of Death's absence to let loose. It was obviously unexpected, startling him into stopping his impromptu escape, but thankfully, his mind was able to put two and two quickly. 

The neighbours. 

He tried to move the opposite way, towards the rooftop, but something tentatively grabbed his shoulders. He tried harder, and it grabbed harder, so he punched it. The punch was a bad swing from a bad position as he couldn't put enough weight behind it, but to his silent relief, the suddenness of the attack and the probable ensuing shock made the pressure vanish. He was on his feet and running the next instant, adrenaline temporarily washing away his exhaustion.

His head was sliced open by an object and his hip banged against something else, eliciting a hiss from his lips and sending other things clattering. It was a mess. A confused mess of hurried yells and groping hands as accusations hung heavy, and the neighbours, fueled by a collective sense of injustice, surged forward. And though he managed to somehow use each impact to rebalance jerkily, something—someone, he realised belatedly—caught a clump of his hair in their hand. They forced Min to a hard stop, his surprise coming out as a hiss, and left him with a devil's choice: drag himself along willingly to avoid having his hair ripped out or try to fight back.

It was a pity, then, that his agency was taken away from him (before he could even start) and he was brought down harshly in a tangle of limbs and cries. 

"You will stay here until the police arrive!"

The cool surface of the floor pressed against his cheek as the person—from the sounds and smothering feel, a woman of indeterminate age but sizable girth—tightened her powerful grip around his wrists, her fingers pressed into his skin, leaving an imprint of pain. No, no, no, no… Desperation clawed at his throat as he flailed his body, each attempt to break free intensifying the ache in his limbs. 

The world outside the suffocating grip seemed distant until a fortunate buckle sent his head slamming into hers with a thunk, eliciting a sharp yell followed by nearby shrieks and pleas—"Betty, please get off him! Don't hurt yourself, just wait for the police to come."—sounding in response. The woman's hands disappeared, but before he could think to capitalise, another heavy person—a man this time—took her place, impacting with enough force to cause him to black out momentarily, along with releasing the air in his lungs in one fell swoosh. 

Amidst the raised voices in the background, one stood out clearly to him due to its proximity, even in his disoriented state.

"You thought you could escape, didn't you?" 

The breath, hot and acrid with a touch of smugness, washed over him, and Min redoubled his struggle. Unfortunately, his effort was futile against the strength that pinned him down, more so when more people joined the fray, a cascade of arms, feet, and bodies descending upon him to create a chaotic symphony of mob justice. He found himself caught in a maelstrom of emotions, shouts of condemnation and insults echoing in his ears, drowning any attempt to plead his innocence—and unable to bear the pain any longer, unable to continue masquerading as a totally defenceless man, Min tugged at the strand leading back to Kush's apartment, personal code be damned.