"Shit, this guy's screwing with me!"
Scar suddenly snapped out of it. The fire pent up in his chest flared to life, burning him up entirely.
"Bastard! Who taught you those fancy words?!"
Cursing, he rushed out after him. That bastard Darren couldn't have gone far—with his staggering gait, how far could he get? Catch him, pin him down, find out—which asshole was feeding him lines behind his back? That "getting bled from both sides," that flippant "going to puke"—those weren't things Darren could come up with himself!
He yanked the door open—
And nearly slammed right into someone.
Several figures stood by the door. Dark silhouettes, pressed tightly against the base of the wall, standing like wooden stakes driven into the dirt. Torchlight from afar flickered across their faces, creating shifting shadows.
It was the guys Vito had found.
The ones responsible for "controlling the scene." The ones responsible for "helping him get even." Basically, the sort who'd taken his money, promised to act, and ended up accomplishing absolutely nothing.
Scar's steps screeched to a halt.
His gaze passed over these people, shooting into the distance—Darren's silhouette was swaying in the night, already a dozen paces away, staggering like he might fall at any moment.
Gotta catch him.
But just as he lifted his foot, someone blocked his way.
"Uh…" The lead guy spoke. He stood before Scar, not moving aside, just slightly bowing his head, speaking in a reverent, cautious tone.
"We stood guard all night… like you said, been here since before the gathering. Legs are numb, but we didn't move an inch…" He looked up, his eyes carrying that fanatical light unique to believers, yet mixed with something much more tangible. Greed.
"Those rushing the stage, we tried to stop them… couldn't hold them all back, that's on us, but the wages…" He paused, his voice dropping lower, as low as a confession. "Don't you think… it's time to settle up?"
The few behind him nodded too. No one chimed in, just nodding, over and over, as pious as if they were worshipping a god.
Scar stood there, looking at these people.
Then he glanced into the distance—Darren's silhouette was getting farther away, about to turn into the alley.
He casually tossed a single gold tooth.
That tooth traced a short arc through the air, landing in the skinny, tall one's outstretched palm. It gleamed yellow, flashing once in the torchlight.
The tall guy froze. He looked down at the gold tooth in his palm, still stained with traces of dark red. His lips moved like he wanted to say something, before he swallowed it back down.
Scar didn't look at him. He just stared at that nearly disappearing silhouette in the distance, gritted his teeth, and snarled:
"Move."
Scar chased after him.
He caught up in a few strides. How fast could Darren even move in that state? Holding himself up against the wall, bent over, head drooping, shoulders heaving—not crying, vomiting.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean, Darren?" Scar's voice smashed into him from behind, hard and cold as a rock.
Darren didn't look back. He just held the wall, continuing to violently retch. Whatever little was in his stomach was long gone; only dry heaves remained now, his throat making ragged heh-heh sounds, like a broken bellows leaking air.
"I'm talking to you!" Scar rushed up in three strides.
One hand suddenly shot out—and grabbed Darren by the scruff of his neck! The fabric tightened, yanking Darren's neck backward. Before he could react, that brute force viciously slammed him against the moss-covered wall!
Thump!
His back hit the slippery, wet wall, moss smearing all over his clothes. Darren's head nearly cracked against the brick. He was pinned there, unable to move.
Scar's hand clamped around his throat. Not too tight—just enough to let him breathe, but firm enough to let him know he couldn't break free.
Darren, throat clamped, still couldn't stop dry heaving. That urge to vomit wouldn't quit. Even pinned against the wall, something still surged in his throat, but nothing came out. Only spasmodic dry heaves remained.
"Spit it out." Scar stared at him. That intact eye gleamed with terrifying intensity in the dimness.
Moonlight leaked through the gaps in the clouds, illuminating them. Darren's face was ghastly pale, the corners of his mouth still trailing the sour water he'd thrown up. His eyes were unfocused, as if he hadn't yet recovered from the vomiting fit.
But he didn't flinch away.
He just raised his eyes, looking right at Scar.
There it was again. That gaze.
The gaze that made the hair on the back of Scar's neck stand up.
Darren didn't struggle under Scar's grip.
Neck clamped, back pressed against the slippery moss wall, his breathing even carrying those ragged heh-heh rasps—he didn't move. He didn't try to pry Scar's hand away, didn't push, didn't beg for mercy.
He just let Scar choke him.
Then, the corner of his mouth twisted into a miserable smile, uglier than crying.
That smile looked exceptionally eerie under the dim moonlight. The corners of his lips were lifting, but his eyes were still dead and vacant, like a poorly painted mask. Like someone desperately trying to squeeze something out, only to squeeze out more despair.
"Scar…" His voice was hoarse. Throat clamped, his breath hitching, each word squeezed out like it came from a broken bellows.
He slowly raised a hand.
That hand still trembled. Soaked too long in the water bucket, the fingers were pruny and white, looking in the moonlight like withered branches.
He didn't try to pry Scar's wrist away. Instead, trembling, he pointed aside—
Pointed straight at that intersection.
Scar recognized that intersection. The intersection where he had been beaten half to death.
To the left—the stinking shantytown. Low, crooked shacks, sewage-flowing alleys, the stench of garbage and excrement floating through the air day and night. The place their kind belonged.
To the right—the "respectable" district, with the vague silhouettes of towering buildings. Those outlines stood silently in the moonlight, like a crowd of coldly observant giants. Clean, tidy, and having absolutely nothing to do with the likes of them.
"Look over there…" Darren's hand still trembled, pointing at that intersection, at those two diverging paths.
"You got your payback." He paused, his throat making a strange heh-heh sound, unsure if it was a laugh or something else entirely. "We did what we were paid to do."
His hand slowly lowered. Halfway down, it stopped again, weakly pointing behind Scar—toward the direction they'd just escaped from. Toward that shack. Toward the warehouse where the fanatical roars could still be faintly heard.
"What else is there left for you to cling to?"
Darren raised his eyes. Those eyes held no fear, no anger, only an empty void that Scar couldn't read.
"Even if it meant leaving this place behind?"
Scar didn't understand.
He clamped Darren's neck, fingers still locked around that scrawny throat, yet his mind was entirely blank.
Cling to? Leaving? What the hell was this bastard talking about?
He opened his mouth, wanting to curse, wanting to roar, wanting to slam Darren's head against the wall a couple more times—but the words stuck in his throat. Not a single syllable popped out.
Because he didn't understand. He truly didn't understand.
Cling to what? Leave for where? This was his damn turf! How much blood and sweat had he spent crawling to this position? From dragging himself back bloody-faced across that street, to now having thousands chanting "Blood Palm," calling him "Master"! This was his! Why the hell would he ever leave?!
"Well said." A voice came from behind.
Scar's entire body stiffened.
That voice wasn't exactly unfamiliar—laced with a bit of hoarseness, a hint of playfulness, like a spectator watching a good show who had finally reached the moment for his own grand entrance.
Accompanied by applause.
Clap. Clap. Clap. Unhurried. Rhythmic. Like assigning a score, or setting the tone for what was to come.
"We've come to fulfill our promise."
Scar looked toward the sound.
Under the moonlight, two figures were walking their way.
One tall. One short.
The tall one wore a dirty white robe, the hem trailing on the ground, crusted with mud and god-knows-what other stains. The moonlight washed over him, turning that filthy robe a dull grey, like a faded shell.
The short one also wore a white robe. Not quite as dirty, but far from clean. He walked half a step behind the tall one, following closely like a shadow.
The two passed through the moonlit shadows, step by step, advancing toward Scar and Darren.
The tall one's face carried an expression Scar recognized but couldn't quite place. It wasn't the fanaticism of a believer, nor the cold apathy of the "respectable" elite, nor the streetwise shrewdness and scheming of their own kind. It was something else.
It was the expression of someone who already knew how the story ended.
As he walked, he kept clapping. That applause echoed in the narrow alley, beat by beat, like a hammer striking the heart.
"To fulfill our promise," he said again.
Then he stopped, tilting his head, looking right at Scar.
Looking at Scar's hand clamped around Darren's neck.
Looking at Darren's ghastly pale, still-miserably smiling face.
Looking around this narrow alley filled with moss and the stench of urine.
His eyes shone in the moonlight, like two worn-down coins.
"Long time no see," he said.