The robber heard the screams before he saw anything. His head snapped around, his finger already tightening on the trigger of his Uzi, his brain preparing to shout at the hostages to shut the fuck up. But the words died in his throat.
He turned just in time to see a frilly white dress and a blur of motion. A leg shot toward his face, and he tried to dodge, tried to raise his arm, tried to do anything. He was too slow.
The heel of Lù Jī's shoe connected with the side of his neck.
The serrated blade, thin and almost invisible, carved through flesh like a hot knife through butter. It sliced through the skin first, then the muscle, then the jugular. The wound was massive—a five-inch gash that opened up his neck like a second mouth, blood spraying in a thick, pressurized arc.
The robber's eyes went wide. His hands flew to his throat, trying to stem the flow, but it was useless. The blood was pouring through his fingers, hot and slippery, pulsing with each beat of his heart. He made a sound that was a wet, gurgling, choking sound that was half-scream and half-drowning. His legs buckled. His body hit the concrete floor with a wet thud, and he lay there, twitching, his blood pooling around him like a crimson halo.
It took him five seconds to die. Five seconds of agony, of suffocation, of feeling his own life drain out of him in a warm, sticky tide.
The robber next to him didn't have time to process what he'd just witnessed. He raised his gun, his finger squeezing the trigger, his eyes locked on the small, frilly figure in front of him. But Lù Jī was already moving.
She lunged forward, her leg thrusting upward with terrifying speed. The tip of her shoe—that same serrated blade—punched through the robber's Adam's apple, piercing cartilage and windpipe in a single, fluid motion. The man's eyes bulged. His hands dropped the gun, reaching for his throat, but there was nothing to grab. The wound was too deep, too precise. He collapsed backward, dead before he hit the ground.
The remaining robbers opened fire.
The sound of Uzis and Tec-9s filled the warehouse, a deafening roar that echoed off the walls. Bullets tore through the air, ricocheting off shelving units, punching holes in boxes, chewing up the concrete floor. Lù Jī dropped low, her body nearly flat against the ground, her frilly dress spreading around her like a white flower blooming in the middle of a warzone.
She moved like water, flowing around the bullets, her legs propelling her forward with impossible speed. One of the robbers tried to track her, tried to aim, but she was already behind him. Her foot swept out, the blade on her heel slicing through both of his Achilles tendons.
The man screamed. It was a raw, animal sound, a sound of pure agony. His legs gave out, his body crumpling, his hands scrabbling at the floor as he tried to drag himself away. But Lù Jī didn't give him the chance.
She raised her leg and brought it down in a devastating axe kick, her heel connecting with the top of his head. The force was immense—more than her small frame should have been capable of. The blade sank deep into his skull, splitting it open like a watermelon. The crack was audible, a wet, splintering sound that made the remaining hostages gag. Blood and brain matter sprayed across the floor, gray and red mixing in a sickening slurry.
The robber's head was split clean in two, the crack running all the way down to his upper jaw. His brain was visible, pulsing and glistening, before it slumped out of the ruined skull and hit the floor with a wet, heavy sound.
The last robber was in shock. His hands were shaking, his Uzi rattling in his grip. He raised it and fired wildly, bullets spraying in every direction. One of them grazed Lù Jī's shoulder, tearing through her frilly dress and carving a shallow trench in her skin. She didn't flinch. She didn't even seem to notice.
She grabbed the body of the man she'd just killed, the one with the split skull, and hurled it at the last robber with superhuman strength. The corpse flew through the air, a mangled, bloody missile, and slammed into the man with enough force to knock him off his feet.
The Uzi clattered to the ground. The robber scrambled for it, his fingers reaching, but Lù Jī was already there. She stomped on his wrist, her heel grinding down, and he screamed as bones shattered beneath the pressure.
Then she grabbed his head.
Her hands didn't move, they stayed at her sides, her arm limp and useless. But her legs were still active, still lethal. She raised her foot and brought the heel down on his jaw. The blade caught him right where the mandible met the skull, and with a sickening crunch, the bone caved inward.
His jaw compressed like a soda can, the lower half of his face crumpling under the force. Teeth bent inward, snapping and shattering, piercing his tongue and cheeks. Blood poured from his mouth, from his nose, from the ruins of his face. His screams turned to gurgles, then silence.
Tòumíng heard the screams from all the way on the other side of the warehouse. He'd been sneaking through the shadows, headbutting anyone stupid enough to get close, when the sound of gunfire and shrieking reached his ears. He stopped, his head tilting, his brow furrowing.
"Ohhh, brother," he muttered, running a hand through his blood-matted hair. "I leave her for FIVE MINUTES."
Inside his chest, Cupid's voice came through, sharp and incredulous. "Don't tell me you're gonna fight her? She probably just just took out like ten guys in under a minute. She's clearly in a frenzy. You're going to get yourself killed."
Tòumíng's jaw tightened. His fists clenched. His eyes locked on the direction of the carnage, and a slow, dangerous grin spread across his face.
"NO SHIT!" he yelled, his voice echoing through the warehouse. "I'M NOT PUSSY!"