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"Well, look who it is," one of them remarks mockingly, realizing who I am. "Fists. Here to save the damsel?"
I crack my knuckles, the sound echoing loudly.
The immediate threat is clear, and though they have the advantage of numbers, they're well aware of my reputation.
Ana’s voice cuts through the silence, “You boys might want to rethink your play.”
The atmosphere is electric, charged with potential violence. My gaze never leaves the group of men.
They say nothing, wicked, sinister grins on their faces as they form a half-circle around us, inching closer by the moment.
Finally, one leaps forward, letting out a battle cry as he swings his fist toward me.
Just like that, the fight is on.
Chapter 15
Anastasia
There's a distinct rhythm to fighting, one I've always been able to tune into. Every movement, every choice, becomes part of a unique dance.
With each pivot, dodge, and block, I assess the situation, noting each attacker's weak point and the best way to exploit it. The adrenaline fuels me, and my movements are calculated. These men, for all their brute force, lack strategy. And that's going to be their downfall.
Samuil, however, is a different story. He's a force of nature. Where I'm swift and strategic, he's just raw power and tenacity. I can't help but glance his way, watching as he delivers a blow that has one of our attackers staggering back, nose likely broken. His face is a mask of concentration and fury, and it's equal parts terrifying and exhilarating.
They probably thought they could overpower two people, and in most cases, they'd be right. But we're not like most people.
As the fight ensues, two of our attackers are down and out of commission, thanks to a combination of our skills and teamwork. We're gaining the upper hand and it feels like victory is within our grasp.
But then everything changes.
From the corner of my eye, I catch a glint, unmistakable and chilling. One of the remaining men has pulled a knife, the sharp edge reflecting the dim lights of the hallway. My heart drops, and time seems to slow.
The stakes have just skyrocketed.
Samuil doesn't see it; he's occupied with another of the attackers, trading heavy blows. The knife-wielding thug starts to advance toward him, a sinister smirk spreading across his face. Everything inside me screams to do something, anything to avert the impending threat.
I quickly launch a spinning kick at the nearest assailant to create some space, then, without wasting a moment, I sprint toward the man with the knife. Every second counts.
Just as he's about to reach Samuil, I tackle him from the side. The element of surprise works in my favor and he stumbles, but he doesn’t let go of the knife. We grapple for control, the cold steel of the blade dangerously close to my skin.
All around the sounds of the brawl continue, but in this immediate space, it's just me, the thug, and that damn knife. I can't let him get the upper hand.
I use all my strength and momentum to push him off balance, but he's relentless. The blade flashes menacingly, casting eerie shadows on the wall.
Time has a strange way of stretching and shrinking during moments of crisis. As the knife-wielding man lunges, I try to reposition, to avoid the blade that promises pain and more. But I'm a split-second too slow, and I brace for the inevitable.
Suddenly, there's a blur of movement. Samuil is there, intercepting the attacker with the same fierceness I watched him use on the other men. The sheer force of his intervention pulls the man away from me, but not without a cost. I hear a sickening slice, and the world seems to tilt off its axis as I realizethat Samuil's been cut, the dark stain blossoming on his side confirming my worst fear.
There's no time to freeze, no time to let the horror sink in, because the other attacker is on me. Relying on reflexes honed over years of training, I react. A swift elbow to his gut makes him double over, and a knee to his face sends him sprawling on the floor, unconscious.
Turning back to Samuil, my heart catches in my throat. He's wrestling the blade out of the hands of the man who stabbed him, using a blend of raw strength and sheer willpower. For a moment, it looks like a stalemate. Then, with a roar that’s both anger and pain, Samuil gains the advantage, disarming the attacker and sending him crashing to the ground with a punch that probably rearranged the man's facial bones.
Silence descends, save for the labored breathing of the two of us and the moans of the incapacitated men around us. The metallic scent of blood is thick in the air. We've won, but at what cost?
Samuil's face is pale, sweat lining his brow, and there's a grimace of pain on his features. But he's standing, stubborn and strong, trying to act as if the wound is just a scratch.
"Samuil..." I breathe, rushing to him, my hands fluttering over his injury, not sure if I should touch or apply pressure.
