Tòumíng stood among the horde of bodies littering the hallway, hopefully all unconscious rather than dead, though with Svetlana's neck-breaking and Ben's stabbing room, he wasn't entirely confident about that assessment.
The floor was covered with groaning gang members, blood spatters, discarded weapons, and the general aftermath of what could only be described as a complete massacre.
The front door opened, and a new figure walked in carrying multiple cup holders filled with coffee cups.
He had a slicked-back mullet that screamed 1980s nostalgia, wore tacky cowboy boots with metal tips, and a leather jacket that looked like it had seen better decades. His entire aesthetic suggested someone who'd watched too many trucker movies and decided to make it his personality.
"Sup guys!" His voice was cheerful, completely oblivious to the carnage. "I brought you all coffees! Claw, I got yours, the Rainbow Sparkle Princess Pink Drink with extra whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles. Lucy, I got yo—"
He finally looked up from the coffee cups and processed the scene. His eyes went wide, tracking across the dozens of unconscious bodies, the blood, the destruction.
"What the fuck happened here?"
Ghost Claw's response was immediate and practical. "Raid. Fifty gang members. Handled. Eric, bring the U-Haul around back so we can dump the bodies."
Tòumíng's confusion reached new heights. "Wait, what? What's going on?"
Ghost Claw gestured toward the mullet guy. "Eric is our driver and overall transporter. His day job is long-haul truck driver, so he has access to vehicles and knows routes that avoid checkpoints. Very useful for our operations."
Tòumíng nodded slowly, then asked the more pressing question: "What do you DO with the bodies?"
"We tie them up, load them into the U-Haul, drive them to the other side of the city, dump them in a public area, and then call the hospital from their own phones to report injured people needing medical attention." Ghost Claw said this like it was the most normal procedure in the world. "Anonymous tip. Clean disposal. No connection to us."
"That's..." Tòumíng searched for the right word. "That's insane."
"That's logistics."
Eric set down the coffee cups on a nearby surface that wasn't covered in blood and called over to Svetlana. "Hey Svet, wanna help me load these guys? I'll split the heavy lifting with you."
Svetlana grinned, clearly happy to have an excuse for more physical activity. She walked over to a cluster of unconscious gang members, bent down, and casually hoisted five full-grown men onto her shoulder like they were bags of rice. She adjusted their weight distribution slightly and started walking toward the back exit without any visible strain.
Tòumíng stared. "She's carrying... five people. At once."
"Svetlana has very good strength," Ghost Claw said matter-of-factly.
"That's not 'very good strength,' that's superhuman!"
"She's Russian. Different standards."
Tòumíng decided not to question that logic. Instead, he pointed toward the room where Ben had dragged his victim earlier. "What about the guy who got stabbed? Ben said he might be dead?"
Ghost Claw sighed, the sound carrying the weight of someone who'd dealt with Ben's "accidents" multiple times before.
"We'll nurse him back to health in our medical bay. Sasha is actually a pretty competent field medic despite her nervous disposition. Once he's stable, we'll interrogate him for any useful information. When that's done, we toss him on the other side of the city like usual."
"You have a medical bay?"
"Of course we have a medical bay. What kind of amateur operation do you think we're running?"
Tòumíng nodded, his brain struggling to keep up with the casual efficiency of what was essentially a private military operation running out of an abandoned office building. He'd gone from dying in a dumpster to fighting trafficking rings to watching a former Navy SEAL discuss body disposal over rainbow coffee in less than a month.
His life had gotten weird.
He looked at Ghost Claw, who'd removed her gas mask briefly to take a sip of her drink, and couldn't resist. "Why is YOUR drink the Rainbow Sparkle Princess Pink Drink? I expected you to have like... pure black coffee with fifty shots of espresso or something. The most hardcore, no-nonsense beverage possible."
Ghost Claw's expression didn't change behind the gas mask, but Tòumíng could sense the defensive energy. She took another sip before responding.
"The sugar content provides immediate energy for cognitive function during extended operations. The sprinkles contain trace minerals that support neural processing. The whipped cream offers quick-absorbing fats for sustained mental performance. It's a carefully calculated nutritional supplement disguised as a beverage. Very professional. Very tactical."
Tòumíng grinned. "You're saying that but, deep down, underneath the gas mask and tactical gear and breaking people's necks, you have the personality of like... a schoolgirl who likes pink sparkly things?"
"Shut up."
"Do you also have a diary? With a little lock on it? Do you write about your feelings?"
"I will break your neck."
"now is that what someone with a pink sparkly diary would say?"
Ghost Claw pointed at him threateningly but didn't actually follow through with the threat, instead taking an aggressive sip of her Rainbow Sparkle Princess Pink Drink.
Marco and Polo, who'd been standing nearby catching their breath from the fight, perked up at the mention of post-battle activities.
"This now calls for dinner!" Marco announced. "After a nice battle, you gotta refuel properly."
Tòumíng looked at them. "Do you guys know how to cook?"
"We're the house chefs," they said simultaneously, their voices perfectly synchronized.
Marco continued alone: "And I'm the better chef."
"No, I'M the better chef," Polo countered immediately.
"Your knife skills are sloppy!"
"Your seasoning is bland!"
"You overcook everything!"
"You undercook everything!"
Their voices rose with each exchange, the competitive energy that had been temporarily united against the gang members now refocusing on each other.
"Gordon Ramsay would call YOUR cooking an insult to food!"
"Gordon Ramsay would throw YOUR dishes in the TRASH!"
They were nose-to-nose again, the same aggressive posturing from earlier, their fists starting to clench.
"Want to settle this ?" Marco challenged.
Right now," Polo agreed.
They charged at each other and started fighting, actual punches, actual grappling, right there among the unconscious gang members, their earlier teamwork dissolving instantly back into sibling rivalry that apparently extended to culinary arts.
Tòumíng watched this unfold and turned to Ghost Claw. "Do they do this after EVERY fight?"
Ghost Claw took another sip of her pink drink. "Every single time. You get used to it."