The distance vanished in a heartbeat.
The first man lunged, throwing a wide, reckless punch—too fast to hesitate, too sloppy to land. Ash dipped his head just enough, the fist slicing through empty air inches from his cheek. He twisted with the motion, boots scraping against concrete as he slipped past.
The second was already there.
A punch came straight for his ribs.
Ash sidestepped, pivoting on his heel, and drove his elbow back—short, brutal, precise.
Crack.
The impact sank deep into muscle and bone. The sound wasn't loud, but it was ugly. The man's breath left him in a sharp, broken gasp as pain detonated across his back. He folded forward, a hoarse groan tearing from his throat as his legs nearly gave out.
Before Ash could reset, the third attacked.
A kick arced toward his head—fast, angry.
Ash raised his forearm just in time.
Thud.
The impact rattled through his arm, numbness blooming up to his shoulder. He gritted his teeth, absorbed it—and didn't let go. His hand snapped out, gripping the attacker's leg tight at the ankle.
The man's balance vanished instantly.
Ash twisted, using the momentum against him, and hurled him sideways.
The body slammed into the corner hard, shoulder first, then collapsed into the pile of discarded junk nearby—metal clanging, wood snapping under the weight. The man cried out, the sound sharp and panicked, before he crumpled to the ground, gasping and clutching at himself.
Ash exhaled slowly.
They didn't let him rest.
The first man was already moving again—hand darting to the side, fingers closing around an empty bottle lying near the wall. Glass clinked softly as he tightened his grip, eyes wild. He lunged, swinging for Ash's head.
Ash reacted on instinct.
He twisted away—but not fast enough.
Crash.
The bottle smashed against his shoulder. Glass exploded outward, the sharp sound echoing through the alley. Pain flared white-hot as shards bit into his skin, several pieces sticking where the glass had torn through fabric and flesh.
Ash hissed through clenched teeth.
Before the man could pull back, Ash's hand shot out. He grabbed the wrist still clutching the broken bottle, fingers locking tight. He yanked hard, forcing the arm down, and stepped in.
Then he punched.
No wind-up. No hesitation.
His fist slammed straight into the man's face.
Crack.
The sound was wrong—wet, hollow.
The man's nose collapsed under the impact, face twisting unnaturally as blood burst free in a sudden spray. His head snapped back, a strangled cry dying in his throat as his body stumbled, balance completely gone.
Ash released him.
The man crumpled, clutching his face, choking on his own breath.
A scream tore out of him—raw and panicked. He rolled on the ground, hands pressed desperately against his nose as blood spilled through his fingers.
"My face—!" he wailed. "My nose—! It's broken!"
He hurled curses at Ash between broken sobs, voice cracking, words slurring as pain overwhelmed whatever bravado he'd had left. Fear bled into his screams now, thick and unmistakable.
Ash didn't respond.
The second man was already back on his feet.
The elbow to his back had ignited something ugly inside him. Pain twisted into fury, and he charged without thinking, unleashing a barrage of punches—one driving toward Ash's ribs, then another, then another. Wild. Fast. Desperate.
An elbow snapped upward, aiming for Ash's chin.
None of it landed.
Ash moved through the assault with practiced ease. A shift of his hips. A half-step back. A slight roll of the shoulders. Each strike passed through the space he'd occupied a heartbeat earlier, slicing nothing but air.
Even Ash felt it—the moment of shock.
He wasn't reacting anymore.
He was already there.
Maybe it was his past life—years of racing at impossible speeds, learning to read motion in fractions of a second. Maybe it was instinct sharpened by dying once already.
But this body… this body was different.
Built for survival. Built for violence.
It answered intent before thought could form. Muscles fired without hesitation. Movement followed will, not conscious decision.
Ash slipped past the final punch, eyes calm, breath steady.
And for the first time, a realization settled in.
He wasn't struggling to keep up.
He was holding back.
If he gave himself even a little time—time to fully adjust to this body—then fights like this wouldn't just be manageable.
They'd be one-sided.
The thought sent a sudden thrill through him.
Who wouldn't want to dominate a fight?
Training flashed through his mind—not as a chore, but as anticipation.
Yes.
After this, he would train properly.
Ash decided he'd tested his reflexes enough.
He pivoted.
The roundhouse came fast—clean, precise, brutal.
His leg cut through the air and connected with the side of the man's head.
The impact snapped the man's body sideways.
For a split second, he was suspended—feet barely touching the ground, eyes unfocused, expression empty. His brain hadn't caught up yet. Signals misfired. The nervous system lagged, struggling to process what had already happened.
Then gravity reclaimed him.
His body folded in on itself and crashed into the concrete with a heavy thud. Dust burst up from the ground where he landed, hanging in the air as his limbs went slack.
He didn't move.
Ash lowered his leg slowly, balance perfect.
The third man—the one Ash had thrown aside earlier—charged back in, rage stripping him of sense. He swung wildly, a desperate punch fueled by pride more than skill.
Ash had already read it.
He shifted just enough for the fist to cut through air and drove a straight punch into the man's stomach.
The impact was brutal.
For a split second, the man lifted off the ground, breath ripped violently from his lungs. His body locked, eyes bulging as blood spilled from his mouth in a wet, choking cough.
Before Ash could follow up—
Impact.
A kick slammed into the side of his head.
The world lurched. Sound dulled. His vision buzzed as nausea surged up his throat. Ash staggered half a step, then shook his head sharply, forcing focus back into place.
He turned.
The man with the broken nose was already there.
Another kick came.
Ash ducked under it and stepped inside the man's guard.
His fists moved—short, efficient, merciless. The man raised his arms to protect his face, but it didn't matter. Punches crushed into his ribs—once, twice—then drove deep into his kidneys. The final strike snapped up into his chin.
The body went slack.
The man stumbled backward, eyes half-glazed, then collapsed onto the concrete with a hollow thud.
Silence followed.
Heavy. Brief.
The last man froze.
Panic flooded his face.
His eyes darted around, searching for an escape, a miracle—anything. He snatched up a bottle, then another, grabbing broken scraps from the ground and hurling them toward Ash. Glass spun through the air, clattering uselessly against walls and pavement.
"Hey—hey, motherfucker, stop right there!" he shouted, voice cracking.
Threats poured out next. If his boss heard about this, Ash was dead. If Ash let him go, he wouldn't say a word. He'd twist the story. He'd keep Ash out of it.
Ash didn't believe a single word.
He already knew how this would end.
The man would crawl back to his boss—bruised, shaken, humiliated—and lie through his teeth. He'd boast about how he chased Ash off, how he "handled" the situation. Pride wouldn't allow him to admit the truth.
No one ever wanted to confess they'd been beaten by a stranger.
Especially not to their superiors.
Trust was built on the illusion of strength, and weakness was something men buried deep—even if it meant twisting reality itself.
Ash watched him shake, glass clutched in trembling hands.
Predictable.
Bottles flew.
Ash slipped between them, movements clean and measured. One passed inches from his head and shattered against the wall behind him—crack—glass exploding outward, fragments raining across the alley.
He didn't slow.
He didn't need to.
He'd already decided it.
If someone threw the first punch, he would be the one to finish it.
Ash stepped forward.
His boots met shattered glass—clink—then another step—crunch. Each sound echoed too clearly in the narrow space. Slow. Deliberate.
The closer he came, the more the man panicked. Breath hitched. Hands shook. Eyes darted wildly.
Then he broke.
He turned and ran—no pride, no threats left, only fear.
Ash followed.
Boots striking debris, glass skittering underfoot.
Tap.
Tap. Tap.
The sound chased him down the alley.