Yellow Teeth finally got his composure back, gasping and wheezing as he struggled to his knees, his neck brace askew from the impact. His face was still purple with rage, spit flying as he screamed at the crowd of gang members behind him.
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU WAITING FOR?! GET THEM!"
The gang members looked uncertain, glancing at each other, clearly reconsidering their life choices after watching their leader get absolutely demolished in two moves. But the ones holding weapons—about ten of them with bats and pipes—worked up their courage and charged forward with aggressive yells meant to sound intimidating but coming out more desperate than threatening.
Marco and Polo didn't wait. They charged to meet them head-on, their earlier bet forgotten in the rush of synchronized violence.
Marco went airborne first, launching himself into a flying drop kick that caught the lead attacker square in the chest. The impact sent the man crashing to the floor, and before his body even finished falling, Marco used it as a platform, executing a perfect handstand on the fallen gang member's torso and spinning his legs in a devastating roundhouse that caught two more attackers in the head simultaneously.
Both men went down like their strings had been cut, their bats clattering away uselessly.
Meanwhile, Polo faced two attackers who'd coordinated an aerial assault—both jumping in the air with their bats raised overhead, trying to bring them down on Polo's skull with combined force.
Polo grinned, his eyes tracking their trajectory.
He punched upward with both fists simultaneously, meeting each attacker mid-air. His knuckles connected with their chests before their bats could complete the swing, stopping their momentum completely. For a split second they hung suspended, frozen by the force of the impact.
Then Polo slammed them downward, driving both bodies into the concrete floor with enough force to crack the surface. They hit hard, the impact knocking the wind from their lungs, their weapons flying from nerveless fingers.
Polo saw another gang member a few feet away, this one visibly second-guessing his participation in this raid. The man's grip on his metal pipe was loose, his stance uncertain, his eyes darting toward the exit like he was calculating if he could make it.
Polo grinned wider. The predatory kind of grin that said "too late to run now."
The man's survival instincts warred with his pride. Pride won, barely. He worked up enough courage to charge forward with a yell, pipe raised—
Polo showed Tòumíng what a real haymaker looked like.
Not the wild swinging kind you saw in street fights. This was textbook boxing technique, weight transfer starting from the back foot, rotating through the hips, shoulders coming around with explosive force, the fist traveling in a tight arc that generated maximum power at the point of impact.
The punch connected with the gang member's jaw at a downward angle.
The man's feet literally left the ground. Not from jumping—from the sheer upward component of the force redirecting his momentum. He went airborne for a fraction of a second before gravity reasserted itself and brought him crashing down.
He hit the concrete floor.
And bounced.
Actually bounced. His body left the ground again on impact, lifting several inches before settling back down in an unconscious heap.
"DID YOU SEE THAT?!" Polo turned to his brother, his voice full of excitement. "DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH FORCE IT TAKES TO MAKE A GUY BOUNCE OFF THE FLOOR?!"
Marco, currently putting a gang member in a headlock, called back: "How many you got so far?"
"Three! You?"
"Also three!" Marco released the headlock, letting his opponent slump to the ground. He looked at the three remaining gang members who were still standing—all of them now looking significantly less enthusiastic about this fight. "Time for a tie breaker!"
The twins rushed forward simultaneously, targeting the three hesitant attackers.
Marco went high, his specialty clearly being kicks. He launched into a spinning back kick that caught one man in the solar plexus, folding him over. Before that man even hit the ground, Marco transitioned into a front kick that sent another attacker stumbling backward into the wall.
Polo, meanwhile, demonstrated what might have been the most unnecessary Dempsey roll in human history.
The Dempsey roll—a boxing technique involving weaving figure-eights while advancing, building momentum for devastating hooks—was designed for ring combat, not hallway brawls. It required space, timing, and an opponent who was actually still conscious and fighting back.
The gang member Polo targeted was already unconscious after the first punch. Completely out. Eyes rolled back, body going limp.
But Polo completed the entire sequence anyway, throwing three more hooks into the falling body with picture-perfect form, his head weaving dramatically between each punch, his feet performing the characteristic shuffle-step pattern.
The unconscious man hit the floor after the fourth unnecessary punch, his face a swollen mess.
Marco and Polo both turned to the last standing gang member—a thin guy who looked barely twenty, his bat now hanging loosely in his grip.
The young man looked at his unconscious companions, at Yellow Teeth still gasping on the floor, at the two grinning twins approaching him from different angles.
He dropped his bat. It clattered against the concrete.
"Look, I don't even know these guys that well," he said quickly, his hands coming up in surrender. "I just needed the money, this isn't personal, I'm happy to just walk away—"
Marco and Polo attacked simultaneously.
Marco's kick came from the left, a vicious roundhouse aimed at the ribs. Polo's punch came from the right, a straight cross targeting the jaw.
Both attacks connected at the exact same moment.
The combined force sent the young man spinning like a top before he collapsed in an unconscious heap, his body twitching slightly from the dual impact.
Silence fell in the hallway. Ten gang members down in under two minutes.
Marco turned to Polo, breathing hard but grinning. "That last one was mine. My kick hit first."
"Bullshit!" Polo shot back. "My punch landed a full tenth of a second before your kick! I felt the connection!"
"Your depth perception is shit! The kick was clearly first!"
"Your timing is shit! The punch was objectively, measurably, scientifically first!"
They were nose to nose now, the same aggressive energy that had been directed at the gang members now refocusing on each other.
"Want to settle this the usual way?" Marco asked.
"Thought you'd never ask."
They started fighting again, right there in the hallway surrounded by unconscious gang members, their earlier teamwork dissolving instantly into sibling rivalry that involved actual punches.
Tòumíng watched this absurdity unfold with his mouth hanging open. "Are they... are they seriously fighting each other AGAIN? Right now?!"
Ghost Claw sighed. "They do this after every joint operation. Let them work it out."