Chapter Text
San doesn’t cry when he hears the news. He’s just sixteen, caught up in the tumultuous storm of his parents divorce, when he gets a knock at his mother’s door. All he gets is a letter delivered to his doorstep at his mother’s house, his name written in elegant script on the back of it. When he opens it, he pulls out a piece of stark white paper, eyes glazing over as he reads the words, Jung Yunho has passed away. Sincerest condolences.
San just stands there for minutes, or perhaps hours. It’s hard to tell when he feels like time has stopped. He breaks out of his trance only when his mother walks in, calling his name over and over until he finally looks up at her. It’s then that he realises he’s been holding on so tight that the paper is crumpled between his trembling fingers, warped beyond recognition. The paper falls from his hands and he can just hear his mother calling his name in confusion before he’s storming out the door and down the street. He makes it to the park where they used to sit on the swings and talk for hours, and he stands in front of the swingset, knuckles white with tension. The cold November air bites at his skin, but he barely even notices.
The next several hours are a blur for him. In fact, he can hardly remember the days after that. There’s no funeral for him to attend, no word from anyone. San almost doesn’t believe it at first, but Yunho is just gone. San drags himself through the days like a ghost, the numbness washing over him and staining each inch of his skin until he feels nothing but the deep ache in his heart and a stabbing at his chest. The day Yunho leaves is the day the boy inside him dies.
///
The crack of knuckles against his cheek sends him reeling. He has only moments to react before there’s another fist pummeling towards him. He ducks, spinning into a roundhouse kick that hits his opponent square in the jaw. At first, he thinks the man is going down. He can hear Wooyoung shouting from the edge of the ring, inciting cheers among the rambunctious crowd. But his opponent recovers, striking San against his temple with a renewed fervor that nearly takes him out.
Eventually, San gains the upper hand again despite the ringing in his ears. He can taste blood in his mouth and the room seems to spin slightly, but he perseveres. He dodges another hit, then retaliates with a punch to the gut. While his opponent is momentarily stunned, San throws his fist against his cheekbone, sending his opponent to the ground.
A roaring count of ‘ One… two… three!’ signals his victory. Wooyoung jumps into the ring, throwing his arm around San as he cheers, grinning from ear to ear. “Fuck yes, Sannie!”
San slumps a little, the room spinning around him. But before he can disappear from the ring, Wooyoung grabs him by the wrist and lifts his arm to the sky, declaring him the official victor. There’s a mix of cheers and boos, those who won big tonight and those who lost it all. San just wants to change and take a shower, then collapse in his bed. He manages to slip away in the chaos, finding himself in the dingy, makeshift changing room at the back of the warehouse.
He stands in front of the sink, leaning over it and examining himself in the mirror. His lip is split open, there’s bruising blooming along his cheekbone, and the dark circles under his eyes yearn for sleep. He looks like absolute shit, he thinks. He turns on the tap and splashes his face with the ice cold water, shuddering at the feeling of it against his skin.
He’s sitting on a creaking bench, wrapping his busted hand in gauze from his bag, when Wooyoung barges into the room. “Sannie! ”
San doesn’t answer, too busy trying to get ready to go as quickly as he can. Wooyoung doesn’t seem to care, continuing on, “We won big tonight, Sannie. Can’t believe they didn’t think you’d win. Means more for us.”
“More for you,” San snaps. He regrets it immediately, but Wooyoung takes it in stride.
Wooyoung just pouts at him, slinking his way over and sitting down beside him. He throws his arm over San’s shoulder, voice loud in his ear when he gleefully says, “More for me means more for you, too. We’re a team, Sannie.”
San sighs. As much as Wooyoung was running a business, he was San’s friend. They’d met while in college, though San really only made it through one year before needing to drop out. Wooyoung had dropped out soon after, but they stayed in touch through it all. It’s easy for him to talk to Wooyoung, and he’s the only person who knows all of San’s secrets, all of his troubles and worries. He has no other real friends to speak of, so Wooyoung is about all he’s got.
“Now, here’s your share,” Wooyoung says, swiftly leafing through each bill in his hand with practiced hands. He divvies up the winnings, handing San a stack of it. San takes it before stuffing it into his wallet, then gets up and gathers his jacket and bag. “No drinks?” Wooyoung asks.
San shakes his head. “I’ve just been punched in the face God knows how many times. I just need to fucking sleep.”
“Your loss,” he shrugs. “I’ll swing by your place tomorrow then.”
They part with their signature shake, and then San is donning his helmet and heading out to where he’d parked his motorcycle. He hops on, slotting the key into the ignition and giving it a turn, the engine roaring to life. His apartment is about a thirty minute drive away from the abandoned warehouse, and this late at night there’d hardly be any traffic out. And it is quiet, as San races down the empty highway. It’s nice, driving like this in the dead of night. Above, there are no stars in the sky, only satellites and planes blinking in and out rhythmically. He can feel the chill of the late-November night air through the neck of his leather jacket, but it’s pleasant against his sweat-slicked skin.
He pulls off the highway, turning down several rundown city streets until he reaches his own. The street lights barely work here, flickering incessantly until some of them just shut off entirely. There’s garbage on the street, and the ever-present smell of weed and filth, but San counts himself lucky that he’s got the only apartment building with actual parking. He pulls into the underground lot, finding his spot tucked at the back corner on the second level. The silence of the garage is almost deafening once he cuts the engine, and he hops off his bike, pulling his helmet off and resting it on the seat.
Footsteps echo through the garage, and San only gets a moment to react before there’s a bat being swung at the side of his head. He ducks, spinning to find himself face-to-face with a group of five men in all black street clothes, carrying bats and batons and looking all sorts of scary.
San sighs. “Can’t we just talk this out? I am really not in the mood for this right now.”
The one in the centre shakes his head, stepping forward, swinging the bat back and forth by his side. “Sorry, Sannie. You’re late on your payments. Which means we come and collect.”
“Fuck, guys. I almost have it all. I just need a few more days.”
The man with the bat tilts his head, a sly smile spreading across his rugged face. “Uh-uh, pretty boy. We value punctuality, you see. So it calls for punishment when you’re tardy.”
“Fuck you,” San bites back. He’s lost count of how many times he’s had to deal with these guys, and he knows they don’t give a flying fuck about punctuality. They make up their own deadlines and choose when they want to fuck with him or not. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, other than they just love punishing people who are at rock bottom.
Five bats and batons coming at him in quick succession are more than he can handle, especially at the end of a long night of fighting. He’s able to dodge and block the first three, but it’s easier when they come at him one at a time. Of course, they’re not interested in a fair fight. Eventually, he’s knocked to the ground, and all he can do is cover his face with his forearms, as he’s pummeled with bats and fists, kicked with heavy leather boots in the stomach and legs.
When they get tired of beating him up, they grab his wallet and empty it of all cash. All the earnings from the fight and… not much else. He’s dead broke, so there’s really not a lot for them to go through.
A boot presses into his thigh, the edge of a bat pushing against his bruised temple. “There won’t be a next time, Sannie. You pay up when we tell you to, or I’ll beat your skull in so hard that you won’t even remember your own name.”
“Why don’t you just kill me instead then?” he mumbles.
The man chuckles. “If you die, then how will we get our money back? You’ve got a debt to pay.”
It’s four o’clock in the morning by the time they leave, and by the time San even has the energy to drag himself up to standing. His body aches all over, like he’d just been hit by a bus. Even the climb up the stairs is laborious. His apartment is located on the third floor of the building; it’s the size of a closet, with dubious stains sprinkled along the popcorn ceiling, creaking floorboards coming loose with each step, and walls paper thin. He tosses his bag to the ground, strips his clothing and leaves it sprawled on the floor as he makes his way to the bathroom.
The shower is cramped, but all he needs is to wash off the grime and blood on him, and it’s serviceable enough. When he’s finished, he ruffles his hair with a towel before collapsing in his bed, not even bothering to put on any clothes. He’ll be up in three hours anyway, so he doesn’t even see the point.
He’s so exhausted that by the time his head hits the pillow, he’s already out.
///
San’s alarm startles him awake. He hits snooze three times before he realises he needs to actually get up and make back the money he lost, so he hops out of bed and goes through the motions of dressing and brushing his teeth. He grabs a protein bar and scurries out the door. The morning is more mild than the night before, and the wind doesn’t bite at him as he weaves through the rush hour commute.
He comes to a red light, slowing until he’s stopped completely, foot resting on the chilled asphalt. As he readjusts his gloves, tapping his toe to the heavy bass pumping out of his earbud, he lets his eyes wander over the surrounding environment. The street he’s on is a busy one, right in the downtown core. At this point in the morning, most people are walking to their workplaces, hopping on the subway or a bus to get where they need to go. Coffee shops are bustling with the caffeine-addicted, banks are queued up to the street with people needing to stop by before they start their days, and office buildings are just waking up. It’s a nicer part of town, filled with expensive condos and suited-up businessmen. Though it’s not quite as gentrified as the eastern side of the city, but San rarely has reason to venture that way.
Just as the light is about to change, he catches a glimpse of something that forces his attention to it. A man, standing at the corner of the street, looking down at his watch. He’s dressed in a black suit and black long coat, hands covered with black leather gloves. His hair is the colour of midnight, a blue tinge that catches in the light of the rising sun as it peeks through the spaces between the buildings.
The sight of him makes San’s heart drop into his stomach. At that moment, time seems to stand still. Every passerby freezes in their place as the rush of memories overwhelms him. He’s knocked back by the force of them, winded when the stature of a sixteen year old boy morphs into that of a grown man. From here, San can see the slender curve of his neck, the tall bridge of his nose as it swoops down gracefully over soft, pink lips.
San would recognise him anywhere.
Yunho.
He opens his mouth to call out, but nothing comes. And then, just like that, the moment breaks. Time resumes. A honk from behind him, just as a bus rolls past where the ghost of Yunho is standing. And when the bus passes, the figure is no more, disappearing into thin air. San turns the corner, ignoring the honk from the car he cuts off to do so, but when he turns down the street he finds no one. He stops at the curb, hopping off his bike before racing to the spot he’d seen him.
There’s no one there. Not when he looks into all immediate buildings. Like the ghost that’s been haunting him, he’s gone when San tries to look for him. But it’s different this time. In all of his dreams and nightmares, in all of the times he sees Yunho standing beside him or sitting on his bed giving him that silly grin of his, Yunho is the age that he died. Sixteen.
San gives up quickly enough. He’d spent enough of his teen years looking for Yunho everywhere, had spent all of his early twenties picturing him walking through his front door just to tell him about the game he’s been playing or the book he wants San to read. And in all of those visions, Yunho is that beautiful boy he’d grown up with, his cheeks full of youth and vigor, and his eyes bright with love.
This is just another vision, San tells himself. Yunho is dead, and there’s no changing that.
///
He makes it to work nearly ten minutes late. His boss puts him through the wringer for it, says he’ll dock his pay or better yet, why not just fire him right then and there. But San knows he won’t do that just yet, they’re too understaffed as it is already, so he just sits there and takes it until his boss gets sore in the throat and dismisses him with the wave of a hand.
The work day is hard, as it always is. Factory work is neither glamorous or fun, but it pays enough and doesn’t require him to have any sort of university degree so he sticks with it. And no one questions the bruises or the cuts he’s constantly showing up with. If anything, he’s even seen a few guys around the ring here and there. No one speaks about it — it’s illegal, of course — but they exchange knowing glances every so often and San almost takes comfort in the fact that he’s not the only one who’s fallen on hard times. No one gets into those rings because they’re doing well in life.
When he’s done for the day, he doesn’t linger. He’s on his motorcycle and driving back home in no time, but when he passes through the downtown core he can’t help but look for that head of midnight hair once again. He’s not sure why he gets his hopes up, he knows Yunho is dead. But the feeling is still there, that deep ache in his chest, that vice-like grip on his heart that yearns for Yunho’s voice in his ear to tell him, ‘I’m here, San.’
He scans the parking garage before he hops off his bike, but there are no thugs after him today. No, they’ll leave him for another few days before they come to collect again. He makes his way back up to his apartment, and just as he slots the key in the door, his eye catches sight of a small splash of colour tucked under his door. He leans down to pick it up; it’s a pale yellow post-it note, and when he turns it over there’s just seven words written in thick black marker. Leave now, you are no longer safe.
San feels the hairs on his arm raise. He whips his head around the dimly lit hallway, searching for any sign of who might have left this here. Kids playing a prank? One of the loan sharks coming to threaten him? But if they wanted to threaten him, they’d just come for him like last night. What’s the point of leaving a note behind?
There’s something about the writing that is familiar, however. Like he’s seen it before but can’t quite place it. His fingers smooth over the black ink, a feeling of unease welling up in his throat. He crumples the note in his hand, shoving the key in the lock and twisting before pushing the door open and tossing the note into the garbage bin.
It’s when he’s in the shower and washing off the sweat and grime from his work day that he hears a key jiggle in the lock before the door is creaking open. He steps out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist, and finds Wooyoung lounging on his couch, feet up on the coffee table.
“You know, the key isn’t supposed to be used just whenever you want. It’s courtesy to knock before you walk in,” San says, toweling his hair dry.
Wooyoung grins at him. “Are you really going to say that to the person who brought you dinner?” He gestures to the plastic bag on his kitchen countertop, filled with all the greasy-goodness of fried chicken, and San melts immediately, his hunger overwhelming him. He quickly dons a pair of sweats, leaving a towel draped over his dripping hair, and he and Wooyoung attack the food.
“So listen, I’ve got you in a fight this weekend. I think it’ll make big bank, it’s one frequented by the mafia. And I mean the big guns, not just the usual goons we’re used to. It’s high stakes this time.”
San blinks at him. “What makes you think I’d even win?”
“Hey. I know your skills. You rest up these next couple of days and you’ll win no problem.”
San leans back in his chair, shaking his head a little. “I don’t know, Wooyoung.”
“Come on, Sannie. If we win big enough at this one, you’ll be able to pay off more of your debt — maybe even all of it — and those loan sharks can kiss your ass.”
It’s tempting, to be sure. His usual fights, along with his work hours, bring in just enough to pay the bare minimum of his debt repayments plus his rent and food. It’s hard to turn down a bigger break, but if it means he could even stop fighting, then it would be everything.
///
The crowd is immense, bigger than he’s seen before. Located in a casino owned and operated by the mafia — the Kim Family if he recalls — it’s a place San has never been before. Different from the dingy warehouses that the usual underground fighting rings usually run out of, it’s filled with finely dressed men and women holding cocktails and smoking cigars. There are crystal chandeliers hanging from the tall ceilings, the sound of boisterous laughing bouncing off the gold plated walls.
Wooyoung walks him to the ring, massaging his shoulders as they push through the crowd. They reach the ring, and San almost feels like turning away. He peeks at his opponent across from them, and a large man several inches taller than him is looking back, a sly grin on his face.
“You got this, babe.”
San gives Wooyoung a look, something like a mix of distaste and astonishment. Wooyoung gives him a slap on the ass before pushing him into the ring, and San almost turns to yell at him but his voice is being drowned out by the sound of an announcer’s voice booming through the speakers, “ Ladies and gentlemen!” he says with flourish. “We’ve got an exciting night planned! Two fighters enter the ring, only one will leave. It’s a fight like you’ve never seen before!
“In one corner, we have our reigning champ, Breaker!” the announcer continues. The crowd erupts in cheers, as his opponent pumps his fist in the air, revving them up.
“Stupid name,” San mutters under his breath.
When the crowd’s cheers die down just a little, the announcer moves on. “And in the other corner, we’ve got a newcomer. Everyone, welcome to the ring, San!”
The jeering that follows does little to deter him. He’s used to the heckling, feels little when he hears the names he’s called. All he’s worried about is not getting his ass completely rocked in the first round. Like Wooyoung had said, he’s got the skills. And at his height, he’s used to fighting against bigger fish. But there’s money on the line, and in a ring like this, there’s his life on the line as well. If he’s not careful, he’ll get himself killed.
San shakes himself off, cracking his neck as the announcer continues to rev up the crowd. They meet in the middle of the ring, the referee instructing them to shake hands. San almost bursts into laughter at the civility of it during an event like this, barbaric and feral as it is, but he steels himself. He clasps hands with his opponent, refusing to flinch when he feels his opponent squeeze hard, his bones straining in protest.
“I’m gonna smash that pretty face of yours into the ground,” Breaker growls.
San refuses to acknowledge the taunt. Instead, he squeezes his hand back, staring him down until the referee forces them apart. They recede back to their own corners, waiting for the referee to begin the match. San is acutely aware of the eyes on him, spectators sizing him up, running the odds in their heads on just how long San will last, how much money they’re going to win when San loses.
The bell rings, and the match begins.
San bounces on the balls of his feet, holding fists up in front of him. Breaker is waiting, giving him that shit-eating grin that is really starting to get on San’s nerves. He’s letting San take the first move, probably planning to play around with him a bit before striking. San decides to play along, just for now. He approaches, taking a few cursory swipes at his opponent to gauge his reaction speed and pattern.
His opponent dodges easily, and San watches him carefully. Eventually, his opponent decides to start fighting back. He throws a punch, full weight behind it, and San dodges. His attacks are relentless, and it’s all San can do to evade the incessant onslaught. Most of his previous opponents have been self-taught, sloppy fighters. It’s clear, however, that this is not just some backyard fighter. He’s got incredible strength and moves surprisingly fast given his size, and when a hit finally lands, San is knocked back by the sheer force of it. He sputters, trying to regain his balance, but his opponent just strikes him again in his lapse of attention and San grunts as he takes hit after hit against his cheek, his shoulder, his abdomen. He only manages to land a few of his own into his opponent’s side, but his opponent barely flinches at it.
San’s knee gives out from a particularly powerful punch to his gut, and he falls backwards to the floor, instinctively raising both arms to protect his face when his opponent straddles him and begins an onslaught of hits to his forearms. San removes one hand, taking a hit to the cheekbone as he’s furiously smacking the mat. A bell whistles and his opponent hops off him, finally giving him space to breathe. The ceiling blurs above him, the crystal chandeliers flickering in streaks of light across his vision.
He can hear his opponent goading, yelling something at him but it’s not registering. All he can do is drag himself up before plopping in the tiny stool at his corner of the ring. Wooyoung is there, poking his head through the ropes where he uses a towel to wipe off the blood and sweat on San’s skin.
“You still have this, Sannie. You just need to move your ass,” Wooyoung says, pouring some water into San’s mouth.
San’s head rolls to the side, giving Wooyoung an unimpressed look. “I’m starting to think this is a bad fucking idea,” San grumbles.
“Just— you’re faster than him. Round one was just warm-up, yeah? Took some hits, made him look good, gave everyone a show. Now you bounce back and fucking show him.”
“I’m not— I don’t think I can win,” San says. Wooyoung reaches through the ropes to squeeze and pat his arms, a poor attempt at hyping him up.
“The amount of fucking money we’ll win— you’ll pay off your debt, I’ll buy a fucking yacht. You got this. Now get back the fuck in there.” Wooyoung gives him a final slap on the back of the shoulder before the referee is signalling for the next round to begin.
San almost wants to laugh at the spectacle of it all. What’s the point of even having a referee in this kind of fight? It’s just illegal, underground fighting. Fighting to the death. There’s no fair play here, no rules to follow. Just kill or be killed. A small part of him wonders if he should just let himself get killed right here and now — what debt could a dead man pay? But he’s not ready to die despite it all, so he can’t help it when he starts to stand.
San cracks his neck, finding his footing once more. His opponent is smirking at him, but San can see the way his hand seems to press against a rib, just a slight movement that lasts for no longer than a moment. Perhaps San had injured him after all? When the bell sounds this time, San changes tactics. He’s on the defensive for a while, watching the way his opponent moves. The pain is masked by the adrenaline coursing through his veins, but he knows that he can’t rely on that forever. Eventually, it will run out and he’d be sluggish and fatigued again. He’d have to end it quickly.
His opponent strikes at him, but he ducks, landing a hit against his flank. San fakes out a hit to the right, then ducks left to strike at the rib that his opponent had seemed to linger on, and he can hear the grunt at the impact. It spurs him on, so he strikes again. When his opponent dives for him, he’s quick to duck down, spinning as he swipes his foot under his opponent’s legs. The crowd roars when Breaker falls to the mat, and San is quick to drop down on him, driving his knee into his opponent’s sternum.
Here he’s able to land several hits to his opponent’s face, before he’s being flung off. He rolls away, tucking his arms in until he’s back to his feet on the opposite side of the ring. His opponent stands, fury in his eyes. He barrels towards San; he’s out for blood now.
The next several moments feel like they stretch on forever. They’re a flurry of strikes and kicks, one gaining the upper hand for just a second before the other overtakes. San’s reaching his limit, his body growing weary by the second. It’s an even fight now, with San putting in his all, but it can’t go on like this for much longer.
San catches a glimpse of something in the corner of his eye, before his opponent is suddenly backing away. Before San can even react, he watches as his opponent dips down to pick something off of the floor, before he’s on the attack again. Light bounces off of something on his opponent’s fist before he’s swinging at San, missing just as San ducks his head.
Brass knuckles? And not just any, he sees. Ones with sharp, jagged edges. Ones used to tear through whatever it hits. San can’t let himself get hit by those or he’s done for. His breath quickens, skin slick with sweat, and San is back on the defensive. He goes for a kick, but his opponent is fast enough to catch it, and he tugs until San is slamming down on his back. He’s just quick enough to raise a forearm to protect his face, the brass knuckles ripping through several layers of skin. He grimaces at the pain, but rolls away before another fist is flying at him. He kicks up, hitting his opponent in the groin, and it’s enough to bring him down.
In a flurry of movements, San fighting for his life as he avoids each strike, he manages to pin his opponent to the floor. He grabs and twists his opponent’s wrist, locking his head between his thighs. He squeezes as hard as he can, letting the adrenaline work through him as he fights back every struggle his opponent makes. He can feel each muscle in his body straining in protest as he musters every last bit of strength he has to keep his opponent locked here.
He hopes his opponent will give up. He hopes someone will step in, stop the match. It’s over! He wants to scream. But his opponent just struggles and struggles, the crowd screaming all around them, until his opponent is blue in the face. It takes several more moments before it’s too much and his opponent’s body falls limp on the mat.
The room falls silent for a moment. When San feels no more movement, not even a breath, he lets go. Breaker lies there, eerily still. He’s gone, and San has just killed him.
San has never killed before. He’s come close, and always in self-defense, but he’s never killed before. He’s not sure what he thought was going to happen coming into this. Did he really not expect a life or death fight? He knows how these things operate, but in all of the fights he’s been in they manage to make it out alive. He’s put people in hospitals, has been put in the hospital himself, but this is different. It was self-defense, he tries to tell himself. He was going to kill you. And San truly believes that. But he can feel the adrenaline waning now, can feel the fatigue setting into his bones and weighing him down like lead. He can feel his heart racing in his chest, hear the blood rushing in his ears. He looks at the lifeless body in front of him, the vapid nothingness behind his wide eyes.
He scurries back from the lifeless body of his opponent, heart pounding in his chest. Wooyoung is already jumping into the ring, helping San to his feet. He’s saying something to him, shouting over the roar of the crowd, but all San can hear is the rush of blood in his ears. The room starts to tilt and he stumbles, back pressing against Wooyoung’s body. He feels Wooyoung’s hands on his shoulders, supporting San’s bodyweight as he leads him out of the ring amidst the chaos. He takes him through the crowd, towards the back rooms where San had gotten ready.
It’s only when they’re in the changeroom that San realises just how violently he’s shaking. Wooyoung presses their foreheads together, hand clasping around the back of San’s neck, and says, “Just breathe.”
San does so, following Wooyoung’s lead. After a few moments, San’s heart rate is starting to slow, his shoulders falling limp with fatigue as all of the adrenaline wears off. “Everyone takes the risk when they enter the ring. It was either you or him,” Wooyoung says.
“I know,” San replies quietly.
“Now, I need to go collect our winnings. You take a breather, get yourself freshened up. And then I’m taking you out to celebrate,” Wooyoung says, giving him the biggest grin he’s seen all week.
“Can’t we just go home?”
“Sannie. You’ve got a day off tomorrow, and you’re gonna need the alcohol after a night like this. Trust me.”
San doesn’t have the energy to bicker, so he lets Wooyoung go. He takes stock of himself in the mirror. The damage isn’t nearly as bad as he’d thought. His skin is devoid of colour, and his forearms are so black with burst blood vessels that it’s like he’s dipped them into ink, but there aren’t any broken bones today, just a few bruised ribs and the somehow superficial tearing in his forearms.
His hands are still shaking, the image of his opponent dying in his hold burned into the back of his eyelids. He’s whispering to himself, repeating, “It was self-defense” like a mantra to keep him grounded. Eventually, he even starts to believe it.
The door bursts open, a shuffling of several feet his only warning before he spins to see a man raising a metal bat above his head. He spins away at the last second, the bat slamming down against the edge of the sink in place of San’s head, shattering the porcelain. San barely has a second to breathe before there’s another bat swinging at him, and before he can even process what’s happening his body takes over and he’s defending himself against six men in black suits with metal bats and riot batons.
But in his state of fatigue and without any additional help, it’s only a matter of time before he’s bested. There’s a kick to his back, another to his gut. Then one of the riot batons comes down on the back of his head with an audible thud and he topples to the cold concrete floor, consciousness flickering in and out until he’s gone completely.