Kyle's mouth opened all the way. A thick thread of bloody drool and vomit spilled over the torn lip and ran down his chin.
Phei's left hand came around.
It was not a wound-up punch. It was not a trained one but a short, clean, contemptuous swing from a body that simply had more destructive force available to it than any human frame should have possessed.
His knuckles met Kyle's cheekbone.
The cheekbone did not crack, instead it caved in.
The entire left side of Kyle's face collapsed inward by a full inch, the zygomatic arch crushed flat against the upper jaw underneath.
The skin over it split in a wide ragged arc that ran from the corner of Kyle's eye down to his jawline, and blood flooded out of it in a single immediate sheet, painting the wall, painting Phei's knuckles, painting the shoulder of the silk dressing gown in a long streaking crimson slap.
