Phei was somewhere else.
He slammed Kyle to the floor with enough force to crack the parquet beneath his spine like thin ice.
Straddled his chest.
The ruined left side of Kyle's torso made a sound under Phei's full weight like a bag of dry sticks being stepped on by a draft horse — a wet, grinding CRRRRRACK as the already-shattered ribs drove deeper into punctured lungs and heart sac.
Phei began punching.
Methodically. Rhythmically. One hand, then the other, then the first again. Each punch landed on a slightly different spot on Kyle's face and each punch broke or reopened something with surgical, merciless precision.
BANG! CRUNCH!
The orbital rim went on the fourth — the bone caving inward with a sickening wet crunch, driving shards straight into the eye socket and rupturing the eyeball in a burst of clear fluid and blood.
BANG! CRUNCH!
