Tòumíng's chest heaved as he planted his feet on the blood-slicked concrete, he almost slipped due to the wetness of the fresh blood. His eyes locked onto Lù Jī's swaying form, that frilly white dress now more red than white, her black hair plastered to her face with gore. She was still coming, still moving, still relentless.
He didn't want to do this. He really, really didn't want to do this. But she was going to kill him, and if she killed him, she'd kill the hostages, and then the whole point of this stupid warehouse infiltration would be for nothing.
"I'm sorry about this," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "I really am. But you're not giving me a choice."
He dropped into a stance, his feet shoulder-width apart, his knees bent, his hands raised. It wasn't a proper fighting stance. He'd never had any formal training. But it was the best he could manage, and right now, the best was all he had.
Lù Jī lunged.
She moved fast, too fast, her leg shooting forward in a brutal thrust aimed directly at his chest. Tòumíng saw it coming, saw the trajectory, and threw himself to the side. The blade on her heel whistled past his ribs, close enough to tear through his shirt, close enough to leave a thin line of blood across his skin. He felt the sting, the warmth of fresh blood trickling down his side, but he ignored it. He couldn't afford to focus on the pain.
His hand shot out, his fingers closing around her ankle. He had her. He actually had her.
He brought his other arm up, his elbow cocked, ready to strike down on her knee, to break the joint, to end this fight—
Her other leg came up.
She moved like a snake, her body twisting in midair, her free leg arcing upward in a reverse axe kick. The blade on her heel carved through the air, aimed directly at his chin, at his throat, at the soft tissue under his jaw.
Tòumíng's eyes went wide. He jerked his head back, throwing himself off balance, barely avoiding the strike. The blade grazed his chin, carving a shallow gash across his jawline. Blood welled up immediately, dripping down his neck, soaking into his already-ruined shirt.
He felt the warmth of it, the sting of the wound, but he didn't let go. His grip on her ankle remained firm, his fingers locked around the delicate bone.
He pulled.
His arm snapped forward, dragging her toward him, and his elbow came down with all the force he could muster. The impact was brutal, a sickening crunch that echoed through the warehouse. Lù Jī's leg bent at an angle that legs definitely shouldn't bend. Her knee dislocated, the joint popping out of its socket, the ligaments tearing, the bone grinding against bone.
She didn't scream. She didn't even flinch. Her expression remained blank, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She just kept moving.
Tòumíng raised his elbow again, aiming for her face, for her temple, for anywhere that would knock her unconscious—
She swung up.
Her good leg wrapped around his neck, her thighs clamping down on either side of his throat. The pressure was immediate, crushing, cutting off his airflow. He felt his vision start to go dark at the edges, felt his lungs burn for oxygen he couldn't get.
He couldn't gouge her eyes. He couldn't do the Pàng Hǔ special. She wasn't a monster like that. She was just a victim of her own biology, a girl who couldn't control what happened to her body when she saw blood.
But he had to get her off him.
His hands came up, grabbing her thighs, trying to pry them apart. She was strong, too strong, her muscles locked in place like steel cables. He couldn't budge her. Couldn't even make her shift.
He was getting lightheaded. The edges of his vision were darkening, narrowing to a pinpoint. He could feel his heartbeat slowing, feel his thoughts becoming sluggish and distant.
Then he realized something.
She was light. Really light. Maybe a hundred and ten pounds, maybe less. All that power, all that speed, all that strength—it came from the adrenaline, the noradrenaline flooding her system. But underneath all that, she was still just a small girl.
So Tòumíng stood up.
He straightened his legs, lifting her with him, her thighs still locked around his neck. She was draped across his shoulder now, her body dangling behind him, her legs wrapped around his throat like a scarf. The pressure on his windpipe didn't ease, but it didn't get worse. He could breathe, just barely, enough to keep his vision from going completely black.
He started climbing.
The conveyor belt system was right in front of him, the lowest platform only a few feet off the ground. He grabbed the edge, pulled himself up, and started ascending. His arms burned, his legs ached, and Lù Jī's weight—light as it was—still made every movement a struggle. But he kept going, climbing higher and higher, moving from one platform to the next.
He reached the top conveyor belt, the highest one, twenty-five feet above the warehouse floor. The air up here was cooler, thinner, carrying the faint scent of ozone and metal. He could see the whole warehouse from here—the bodies, the blood, the hostages huddled in the center. He could see the loading dock, the exit, the way out.
And he could feel the darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision again. The oxygen deprivation was getting worse. He didn't have much time left.
He turned around.
Lù Jī was still on his shoulder, her legs still wrapped around his neck, her body limp and unresponsive. She'd stopped moving, stopped struggling. Maybe she'd finally exhausted herself. Maybe the frenzy was wearing off. Either way, she was completely passive.
Tòumíng looked down at the concrete floor far below. Twenty-five feet. It would hurt. It would hurt a lot. But he couldn't think of another way to end this.
"Sorry about this," he muttered. "Really. I'm sorry."
He fell backward.
The drop felt like it took forever. The wind rushed past his ears, his body tumbling through the air, his arms flailing uselessly. Lù Jī's weight pressed against his back, her legs still locked around his neck, her body draped across his shoulders.
He hit the ground.
The impact was catastrophic. His body slammed into the concrete, his spine taking the brunt of the force, his ribs cracking, his skull bouncing off the floor. He felt bones shatter, felt organs compress, felt the air rush out of his lungs in a single, explosive gasp.
But Lù Jī hit the ground first.
His body had landed on top of hers, his weight driving her into the concrete, her small frame absorbing the impact. He heard something crunch her ribs, maybe, or her spine—and felt her body go completely limp beneath him.
The pressure on his neck eased. Her legs fell away, releasing their grip on his throat. Air rushed into his lungs, sweet and cool and wonderful.
Tòumíng's vision went white. Then red. Then black.