The sound of shattering glass cut through the stuffy air when one of the men, trying to get up dizzily from the floor, was lifted by the collar of his shirt and brutally thrown against the large side window of the establishment, right next to the table where Michael remained motionless.
— That's it! That's what I'm talking about! — Raniel exclaimed, laughing loudly as he shook his arms, celebrating his own energy with an almost childish enthusiasm. — Pure fun, buddy! I needed to warm up my muscles.
The man smashed against the glass, shattering the window into dozens of pieces before falling unconscious on the sidewalk outside.
There were still two or three customers on the floor trying to get up, but Raniel neutralized them with quick, precise kicks, knocking them back down without the slightest effort. However, the tattooed brute — the first one he had knocked out with a blow to the trachea — caught his breath, got up staggering with eyes bloodshot with hatred, and threw a heavy punch, a right hook that landed squarely on Raniel's face.
Raniel's head snapped to the side with the impact. He brought his hand to the corner of his mouth, tasted blood, but instead of shrinking back, he opened a wide, sadistic smile. With the speed of a strike, he delivered an open, cracking slap to the giant's chest, a blow so loaded with kinetic force and leverage that the man flew backward, falling meters away and blacking out for good.
At the same moment, the last man standing, holding a rusty serrated knife he had grabbed from the counter, charged forward blind with rage. Raniel took a fluid sidestep, grabbed the aggressor's wrist with one hand, disarmed him with a twisting motion, and ended the conflict by delivering a dry, yet contained, punch to the guy's chin, who collapsed like a rag doll.
Minutes later, silence returned to the bar, which now looked like an urban war scene among overturned tables, shattered chairs, and puddles of beer scattered across the floor.
Michael, who had spent the entire confrontation immersed in his own mental layers, finally blinked and raised his eyes to the carnage around him. Reality crashed against his mind like a cold wave. He stared at the damage, took a deep breath, and said in a low, flat voice:
— That was a lot of damage.
Raniel bounced back to the table, adjusted the collar of his jacket, pulled the chair with a screech, and sat down calmly, grabbing the beer glass he had left intact before the commotion. He took a long sip, sighed satisfied, and looked at Michael with a mocking smile.
— Ah, relax, "professor." The bar owner must have insurance... or at least a good excuse to close the doors.
Michael stared at him fixedly. The reflection of the faint ceiling light shone in his eyes as his mind, previously locked in cold gears, began to process the loose pieces of that night.
That man laughed, Michael thought, observing Raniel's relaxed movements. He feels the heat of the moment, the adrenaline, the absurdity of existing. Is that being alive? Is that how happiness feels? Could it be that, no matter how much I try to dissect my thoughts, my reflection in the mirror will continue to be only that of a creature made of iron and silence?
The words Raniel had said hours earlier echoed with cutting clarity in his mind, linking directly to the image of Foxy in the square.
He was right. She is not just a work colleague. But the abyss between what she represents and what I am is insurmountable. If she saw the bottom of my mind, what would remain beyond fear? No one hugs a monster without ending up bleeding.
A crack of vulnerability, subtle and painful, broke through the shell of ice that protected Michael's expression. His lips compressed slightly, and his gaze lost focus, taking on a tragic density.
If my destiny is only to walk through empty corridors until there is no one left to hunt... will the end of this whole journey be only the lonely echo of a man who never learned to breathe?