Before Tòumíng could reply, another figure appeared in the hallway, a tall, blonde, toned kid who looked to be around eighteen or nineteen. He wore an oversized white t-shirt that hung off his frame like a parachute and equally baggy pants that pooled around his sneakers. In one hand, he held a bright blue popsicle, which he was casually licking as he approached Ghost Claw.
His accent was unmistakably British, sharp and urban. "Oi! We got company!"
Ghost Claw nodded. "Yes, Tòumíng is a guest. I already explained—"
"NO!" The blonde kid shook his head emphatically, the popsicle gesturing for emphasis. "I mean we got COMPANY! Outside! Like, proper company! The violent kind!"
Ghost Claw's posture shifted immediately, going from casual to alert. "Is Eric back from his day job already?"
The kid shook his head again. "Unless Eric suddenly became fifty blokes with bats and guns, I doubt it. We got a proper mob outside, innit. Looking aggressive."
Ghost Claw didn't hesitate. She pressed a button on her watch, and immediately a silent alarm must have activated throughout the building because doors started opening all along the hallway.
People emerged, Lucy with her purple hair and piercings, the twins Marco and Polo, Svetlana ducking slightly to clear her doorframe, and various other figures Tòumíng hadn't been introduced to yet. All of them looked alert, ready, clearly accustomed to this kind of emergency.
"What's happening?" Lucy asked, her split tongue flicking out as she spoke.
"We're being raided," Ghost Claw said simply.
The moment the word "raid" left her mouth, there was a clattering sound from the basement stairs. Think Tink The Tinkerer came sprinting up, taking the steps three at a time, his skinny shirtless frame moving with surprising speed.
He was grinning, a manic, unsettling grin that showed off his very yellow teeth, the kind of smile that suggested he'd been hoping for exactly this kind of excitement.
"Can I use Jury Rig A-16?!" His voice was eager, almost childlike in its enthusiasm. "Please please please can I use A-16?! I've been wanting to field test it for MONTHS!"
"Fuck no!" Ghost Claw's response was immediate and firm. "We're dealing with a group of people, not a military installation! There's no need to level the entire building and half the block!"
Tòumíng was about to ask what exactly "A-16" was—and why it would level a building—when the sound of wood splintering cut through the air.
CRASH.
One of the doors at the far end of the hallway exploded inward, the lock mechanism destroyed by what was probably a battering ram or concentrated kicking. The door hung at an angle, barely attached to its hinges.
Through the broken entrance poured approximately thirty people, all armed with various weapons, baseball bats, metal pipes, a few handguns visible in waistbands. They wore mismatched clothing but similar colors, gang affiliation markers, probably local territory crews that had been assembled for this specific raid.
And at the front of the group, leading the charge with a baseball bat held high and wearing a very obvious neck brace, was a familiar face.
Yellow Teeth. The gang member who'd been part of the group that jumped Tòumíng in the alley weeks ago. The one who'd shot him multiple times before Tòumíng had... well, before things had escalated.
His eyes locked onto Ghost Claw and absolute fury twisted his features.
"YOU BITCH!" He pointed his bat directly at her, his voice cracking with rage. "YOU FUCKING BITCH!"
The hallway fell into tense silence, the assembled defenders on one side, the invading gang members on the other.
Yellow Teeth started ranting, his words tumbling out in an angry stream. "You TRICKED me! You told me to follow that kid, said it'd be easy money, just surveillance! And instead, we got our asses KICKED! My neck got BROKEN!" He gestured at the brace for emphasis. "I've been in the hospital for A WEEK! Physical therapy! Pain meds! Medical bills!"
He took a breath, his grip tightening on the bat. "But now? NOW we managed to use every favor we had, pooled our money, and got FIFTY gang members from all over the area to come raid your shitty little base! We're gonna ransack this place for everything it's worth! Equipment! Money! Whatever the fuck you've got hidden here! Consider this PAYBACK!"
Ghost Claw's voice was calm, almost bored. "I asked you to follow someone. If you couldn't do something as simple as that without getting your neck broken, maybe you deserved what happened. Sounds like a skill issue to me."
Yellow Teeth's face went from angry red to absolutely purple with rage. The vein on his forehead looked ready to burst. The other gang members shifted nervously, clearly aware this was about to escalate beyond the planned intimidation phase.
"SKILL ISSUE?!" Yellow Teeth's voice hit a pitch that suggested permanent vocal cord damage was imminent. "I'LL SHOW YOU A FUCKING SKILL ISSUE!"
He charged forward, bat raised above his head, screaming incoherently, completely abandoning any tactical awareness in favor of pure rage-fueled violence.
Tòumíng started to move forward, his hand instinctively reaching for-well, he didn't have a weapon, but he was ready to help—
Ghost Claw's hand shot out and stopped him with a gesture. "Stay back."
Yellow Teeth closed the distance, his bat coming down in a vicious overhead swing aimed directly at Ghost Claw's head—
Ghost Claw moved.
Two fingers extended, she struck directly at Yellow Teeth's windpipe with surgical precision. Not enough force to crush it completely, but enough to instantly cut off his air supply and send shock signals through his nervous system.
Before he could even process the throat strike, her other hand came forward in what looked like barely any movement at all—a one-inch punch, the kind of technique that generated power through internal mechanics rather than visible wind-up.
Her fist connected with Yellow Teeth's solar plexus.
The effect was immediate and devastating. All the air that hadn't been cut off by the throat strike was forcibly expelled from his lungs. His diaphragm spasmed. His entire core seized up. And the kinetic energy of the punch—concentrated into such a small movement—sent him flying backward.
He traveled at least six feet through the air before hitting the floor hard, his bat clattering away, his body convulsing as it tried to remember how to breathe.
The other gang members stared in shocked silence.
Svetlana stepped forward, her tall frame moving with predatory grace, her expression hopeful. "Can I have some fun now? Please? It's been two weeks since last combat engagement."
Ghost Claw shook her head. "No. Let everyone take a crack at it. They need the practice more than you need the entertainment."
Marco and Polo, the twins who'd been fighting each other minutes ago—immediately stepped forward with matching grins. All their earlier animosity had evaporated, replaced by the kind of unified purpose that only came from facing a common enemy.
They looked at the crowd of thirty gang members, then at each other.
"Twenty yuan says I drop more than you," Marco said.
"You're on," Polo replied. "Loser does the other's code review for a month."
They turned back to the gang members, cracking their knuckles in unison.
"So," Marco called out cheerfully. "Who's first?"