Wet stone.
He stands still long enough to be mistaken for afraid.
Footsteps rush in.
A punch,
he doesn’t block.
He empties the space.
Palm lands once.
Ribs cave inward.
Air leaves forever.
Second man grabs.
Twist.
Shoulder pops like dry wood.
Knife flashes.
Two fingers catch the wrist.
A tap to the neck,
the knife falls before the body does.
Silence snaps back into place.
He adjusts his sleeve.
Breath steady.
Gone.