Page 102 of Marked By Him

I spot her out of my periphery—or, really, the two men moving fast across the platform, clutching a third smaller person between them. Their heads are down and their strides long as they attempt to sneak off unnoticed.

Rage slams into me and turns me impulsive and feral.

I leap from the train before the last of the passengers even have a chance to get off. Boots thudding on the ground, I take off after them. They’re nearly at the exit when I’m coming up from behind. Before either of them can sense my presence, I throw myself at them, tackling all three to the ground.

We each land in a hard tumble on the concrete floor. Both men scramble to make it to their feet. I’ve already beaten them, back on my feet from the moment I crashed down. Monroe’s onthe ground, hands tied and a pair of sunglasses slanted across her face.

One glance at her, and I can tell she’s bruised. They’ve struck her across the face and caused a bruise to bloom along her nose and cheek. Probably part of what the sunglasses are meant to conceal.

The men stand opposite us, ready to attack. The crimson tattoos snaked along their necks tell me exactly who they are—Bulgeomhoe seeking their revenge for what happened at Club Gongshi weeks ago.

I curl my fists and hold them up.

“What are you waiting for?” I challenge, jutting my chin. “Didn’t I tell you to say it to my face? Let’s see how tough you are now.”

The smaller one in dark clothes moves first. He lunges at me with his leg raised high. He’s going for a roundhouse kick but lacks the technique to pull it off seamlessly.

I anticipate it before he’s even done executing the move and duck low to leave him kicking air.

These types of enforcers all fight the same. While one attacks, another lurks in the wings for their opening.

As the smaller one attempts his roundhouse kick, the second guy throws his fist at me from my blind spot. He’s aiming for my ribs.

I twist out of the way, catching his forearm and then doubling back to jam my elbow deep into his gut. His breath rips from him in a choked grunt. I step inward hard, driving the heel of my boot into his ankle to drop him to the floor.

The first guy’s already launching his second attack. He’s learned from his last mistake. The roundhouse kick he delivers this time is more fluid, his foot slamming against my jaw. My head snaps to the side, and for half a second, my balance falters.I stagger two steps back with the taste of blood in my mouth, but I’m not shaken.

One of the most important things about fighting is keeping a clear head. Not being mentally thrown off by a hit or two. Even the best fighters take some blows.

What’s important is how you recover and move forward.

I duck as he follows up with another arcing kick. It sails over my shoulder and narrowly misses. I snap my own leg out in a low side kick, slamming my shin into his thigh. His knee buckles as I add a cross hook to the jaw.

Just like that, he’s dropping back.

The second man makes his return. We collide in a blur of motion, fists flying and our bodies bobbing and weaving. Jabs. Cross hooks. Haymakers.

We develop a violent rhythm that’s instinctual and primal.

He’s obviously a trained boxer judging by how he carries himself. I have the advantage of knowing what to expect from him. I bait him into swinging wide, then pivot, forcing him to follow. We move in circles as he tries to land a punch on me, but I’m too quick and agile.

His breath grows heavier. His throws sloppier.

That’s when I strike. Ducking under his jab, I slam an uppercut into his chin, then sweep his legs out from under him. He crashes to the ground, flat on his back.

“JIN!” Monroe screams in warning.

My head snaps up just in time to spot the smaller man charging again. He’s pulled out a blade to shank me with. He draws his arm back to make his stabbing motion.

Monroe sticks her foot out as he passes her by and trips him.

His chin cracks against the cement floor. The knife clatters out of his reach.

I pounce before he’s even processed what happened. Snatching the blade off the ground, I flip him over and drive itinto his throat, severing his jugular. Blood spurts hot across my hand. He squirms and squeals until his mouth goes slack and he falls still.

Gasps erupt all around us. The passengers who have gathered to watch the street fight stare in horror.

But they’re the least of my concern. I’m one-track minded as I spin around and finish off the second enforcer. He’s barely scrambled to his feet. I surge forward, slamming my shoulder into his chest and plunging the knife deep into his sternum. He lets out a guttural cry and collapses with eyes wide and vacant.

---